Lion's Tooth
by Alexabee
Summary: [Reposted] Orphaned at the age of 8, Katniss is taken in by the Mellark family. Peeta becomes her closest friend, but their bond only fuels Mrs. Mellark's explosive rage. Together, Katniss and Peeta must find ways to survive a different sort of arena. Trigger warning: severe child abuse, character suicide. Keywords: AU, abuse, bullying, orphans, everlark, angst, sexual content
1. Prologue

_Author's Note:_ This work was originally posted on FFN in June 2012. The depictions of abuse in this story are graphic and partly based upon real experiences. These events still take place in Panem, though there are no Hunger Games and the Mellark bakery and Mellark household are separate.

Thank you my absolutely amazing beta, Soamazinghere!

My deepest thanks to those who have read this story before and have had it resonate with them in some way.

* * *

**_Prologue_**

"Out!"

Katniss startled at the shrill voice, still holding the lid of the garbage can in one small, wet hand.

"Get out of here! Do you hear me? Out, you filthy Seam brat!" the woman hollered angrily, stepping out the bakery's back door and picking her way down the wet wooden steps. She marched past the pigpen, through the puddle left by the rainspout, straight towards the little girl.

Katniss gently replaced the garbage can lid with numb fingers and took a few steps back.

At the commotion, a boy's face peeked through the speckled curtain in the window above, taking in the scene in the alley. Ruffled blonde hair, ruddy cheeks, big eyes. Katniss recognized him from school but didn't know his name.

"Always pawing through our garbage," the angry woman – his mother – continued, all of a sudden towering over the girl with only the gate standing between them. "Don't you understand, you stupid thing? _Out_!"

_But I'm already out_, Katniss thought, taking another step back just before a chapped, red hand caught her in the side of the head. She stumbled sideways. Her skinny arms shot out as she fell, scattering the bundle of tattered baby clothes she had been carrying into the mud. A spike of pain shot up through one of her wrists as her hands made contact with the ground.

When she looked up through her stringy, wet hair, the boy at the window was gone.

"Get out of here!" the baker's wife screamed before turning on her heel and stalking back up the stairs and into the doorway. She wiped her hands on her apron in disgust, then glared at the child once more before slamming the door.

Katniss knelt in the mud, no longer feeling the cold, sharp rain or the hunger that made her lightheaded, just the horrible ache in her arm that wouldn't go away. She clutched it to her chest, let it hang limp, cradled it, but found no relief in any position.

Finally, although she was tougher than most children, she did what any eight-year-old with a broken arm would do. She cried.

"Mother," she wept. "Mother."

But even though her mother was a healer, Katniss knew that she wouldn't hear her cry for help. First, Father had died in the mines. She and her mother and her little sister, Primrose, had been just barely surviving on the grain and oil allotted to them by the government to cover exactly one month of bereavement. But the food hadn't stretched far enough, and for the last week the family had hardly a meal to split between the three of them. Then both mother and Prim had developed coughs and fevers, and even though Katniss had tried her hardest to care for them, yesterday morning Mother wouldn't wake up. This morning, it had been Prim.

Katniss hadn't eaten in four days and found herself alone in the world overnight. She had been trying to trade some of Prim's old baby clothes for food, without success. In the end, she had resorted to digging through the merchants' trash bins for scraps.

Muffled voices could be heard from inside the bakery, a man and a woman barking back and forth. Then the door opened once more.

_She's coming to beat me_, Katniss thought, stifling her sobs as she concealed her injured arm inside her jacket. She frantically struggled to stand up, but only ended up skidding in the mud and falling hard on her knees.

"Easy there," a man's voice said this time, but it was gentle. "Don't move too fast. Let me help you up."

Katniss began to cry afresh when big, warm hands – not unlike her father's – scooped her up and placed her on her feet. The baker, Mr. Mellark, knelt down to look into the little girl's face, plastered with wet black hair, tears and dirt. Her thin coat was soaked though by the rain and her red corduroy jumper was caked with mud. She had no stockings and was wearing just a pair of brown leather sandals, even though thick, woolen socks and rain boots would've been more appropriate for the weather.

"There now. Is that arm hurt?" he asked with tender concern before suddenly recognizing the face in front of him. "Oh! It's Katniss Everdeen, isn't it? I didn't recognize you without your braids."

Katniss nodded feebly, cradling her bad arm to her chest.

"I know your mother," he said, smiling but looking a little sad. Katniss' father had been a coal miner from the Seam, and she took after him – dark hair, grey eyes, olive skin. But her blonde-haired, blue-eyed mother had been from town. "Let's get you home so she can fix up that arm," the man continued, gripping one of her thin shoulders. He frowned at how bony it was beneath his hand.

"But Mother won't wake up," Katniss sniffled, "and neither will Prim." Her small face scrunched up with tears once more.

Pity flooded Darrow Mellark's face before melting into sober understanding.

"Oh, Katniss… How long have you been alone? You must've been hungry," he realized aloud, looking towards the trash bin.

Katniss sucked in her bottom lip to keep from sobbing more. The boy from school was now standing by the gate, peering through the fence at them.

"Don't you worry about your mother. It'll be okay. Let's get you inside and take care of that arm, and we'll get you something to eat before we do anything else," said the baker, picking her up and carrying her like a much younger child. He was warm and strong and smelled like the yeast and flour that he put into the breads he made.

"Dad," the boy said a moment later, tugging on the hem of his father's apron and holding out a muddy handful. His eyes were big and serious. "She dropped these. Don't forget these."

He had picked all of Prim's baby clothes out of the mud.

"Yes. Thank you, Peeta," Mr. Mellark said. "Come on now. Let's all get out of this rain and we'll figure out what to do."

With the soaked Seam girl in his arms and little Peeta trailing close behind, Darrow Mellark mounted the steps and entered the warm bakery.


	2. Chapter 1: Problem Child

**Chapter 1: Problem Child**

"Does this look like it belongs to you?"

She's screaming at me again. It happens so much that I've learned to just tune it out.

"No, Hollis," I say blankly. Her face turns red when she yells, and her eyes get wide. Scary wide.

"What were you thinking?"

I know it's not really a question.

"I wasn't."

"You weren't what?"

"I wasn't thinking."

I'm not her servant, but you'd think I was by the way she's shouting at me. I know that Darrow loves me and even says that I can call him 'dad' like the boys do (though I don't, out of respect for the memory of my own father). But even after eight years, his wife, Hollis, despises me and makes it known that she will never accept me as part of the family. She barely acknowledges me except to point out all the things that I do wrong.

I do a lot of things wrong.

Today she's yelling at me because I used a cloth that didn't belong to me when I cleaned the bathroom. I don't know what she means about it not being 'mine'; I only used whatever was in the cupboard. She's just in one of her moods and looking for a reason to explode.

One time, she hit me for wearing the wrong socks. I didn't even know there was such a thing as wearing the 'wrong' socks up until that point. Anything can set her off and I usually get punished for it, even if I'm not responsible for whatever upset her in the first place.

"Not. Thinking." Hollis enunciates, tapping her head with two fingers, giving me that crazy-eyed stare. "What are you, _brainless_?"

"It's just a cloth," I mutter under my breath, looking down at my bare feet.

"Excuse me? What did you say?"

I know right away that was a mistake. Sometimes I just can't control what comes out of my mouth.

Hollis makes a sudden move towards me. I think she's going to hit me so I flinch away, raising my arms to protect myself. Instead, she reads my gesture as an attack and grabs the broom.

All of my muscles instinctively tense up just before the wooden handle crashes down on the side of my head and shoulder. I turn into the wall and cover my head with my arms, taking more blows to my back and across my fingers.

I honestly barely feel it anymore. I mean, it hurts. But it should probably hurt worse. I'm just desensitized to the pain by now, I guess.

"Stupid, ungrateful girl!" Hollis shouts as she hits me. "I should throw you out on the street! You're as worthless as the family you came from!"

That's the part that hurts.

The first time she said it, I broke down into tears and she laughed at me. It made my blood boil, so I lashed out in anger. I clawed at her face with my fingernails, leaving marks for a week. Even Darrow had been upset with me for that one, and I don't like to disappoint him. So now I just retreat to some place deep in my mind and I don't react at all.

It's not a happy place. I have no happy places. It's just far enough away that she can't get to it.

A particularly hard crack to the back of my head shocks me out of my daze and I cry out involuntarily. Something hot and wet runs down the back of my neck and soaks into the collar of my shirt.

Blood.

This has happened before. I couldn't brush my hair properly for weeks without reopening the wound on my scalp. It probably should've had stitches, but none of my injuries have ever been treated by a doctor. My index finger is permanently crooked from the time she broke it.

"Mom," a voice calls out soon thereafter. It's Mathias. He's been watching from the stairs. "Mom, come on. Let it go. Come upstairs."

Hollis is sobbing, tears streaking her red face. I hate her for crying when she hits me. It's not like she's the one being beaten, and I'm sure her tears aren't for me. But it dupes Darrow and then he feels bad for her and makes excuses for her behavior, which makes me hate him. Which, in turn, makes me hate myself, because Darrow is the only person in the world who genuinely loves me.

Him and maybe Peeta, but I don't know about that anymore.

Still crying, Hollis drops her weapon. The broom handle rattles hollowly on the floor next to me. She then whips the offending cloth that started this whole fight at my back. It hits me with a soggy slap.

"You're a disgusting thing!" she cries, then stomps up the stairs and slams the door, locking it behind her. The light switch for the cellar is on the other side, in the hallway, and I'm plunged into darkness a moment later.

I crawl over to where my mattress is on the floor, feeling the way. This is where I sleep. I used to sleep in the same room as Mathias, Ryland and Peeta, but when I turned twelve, Darrow said that I needed my own room. The only problem is, there wasn't another room in the Mellark's narrow, two-story house. So Hollis said she would make a little curtain and corner off part of the cellar for me to use as my own private space. She promised a lamp with a colored shade and a white chest of drawers for my clothes. She said it would be neat and cosy and I'd only need it for sleeping, so it wouldn't be that bad.

It's been four years, and I still just have a mattress and a blanket in the corner. My clothes are piled in the same wooden crate that was once used to carry them down. She says I should be grateful that she's even spent money on clothes for me. Sometimes she takes them away as punishment.

At least tonight I'm not naked and freezing in the cellar. I feel my way along the plaster wall until I find the crate, then pull a sweater over my head with stiff, swollen fingers. I won't be able to hold my pencil properly at school tomorrow. The sweater bites as it slides over the cut on the back of my head, causing me to wince. My bloodied shirt underneath is sticking to my back uncomfortably, but I don't care. I gingerly lower myself face-first onto the mattress and pull the blanket over me, listening to the sounds above.

I hear footsteps and chairs scraping back as dinner is served. I hear the front door slam as Darrow comes home - it was his late day at the bakery. I hear forks and knives on plates. Tonight they're eating peas and potatoes and pork chops. I know because I helped prepare it.

My stomach rumbles. All I've eaten today was a bun for breakfast. Hollis makes lunches for Peeta and Ry to take to school, and sometimes for Mat and Darrow to take to work. But after I came home one day with mine unfinished – the bread was moldy – she hit me for being wasteful and then refused to make one for me again. So if I forget to take my own food to school, I don't eat.

Today, I forgot. I forget a lot. Hollis complains that I don't pay attention to things, and on that charge, she's right. I guess it's not worth paying attention when you're always getting punished for doing it wrong.

"Where's Kat?" comes Darrow's deep voice, muffled through the floorboards above. My ears perk up at the mention of my name.

There's silence for a minute, except for the sound of forks scraping against plates. Nobody's about to jump up and tell him what happened. They've seen what happens when they try to get involved.

"Holl?" he asks his wife.

"Katniss is being punished," Hollis says loudly. On purpose, so I can hear it.

"What this time?" Darrow asks wearily.

I glare into the mattress. She's making him hate me and she wants me to know it. That's what she does to anyone who shows affection towards me.

"You know she has a smart mouth! And when I confronted her about it, she raised her hands to me!" Hollis waits for a response, but the only sounds are those of the boys, eating. She continues, anyway. "That girl has problems, Darrow! This is the thanks we get for taking in a _Seam_-"

"That's enough!" he interjects. He sounds frustrated, though I can't tell if it's with me or his wife or the both of us because we're always fighting and he's always caught in the crossfire. "Enough. Let's just eat."

Only after I hear the dishes being washed and the family heading up to bed do I cry. Angry, bitter, resentful tears. I want to scream into my blanket, but I feel paralyzed with rage. I stay facedown on the mattress, sobbing until I exhaust myself.

A while later, just as I'm drifting off, the door above creaks open.

"Katniss?"

A backlit silhouette stands at the top of the stairs, but whoever it is, he doesn't turn on the light or raise his voice above a whisper. He obviously thinks I'm asleep, so I close my eyes and pretend that I am. I'm not in the mood to talk.

I hear the steps squeaking as he makes his way downstairs, then a plate being placed softly on the ground beside my mattress. But then a gentle hand on my bruised back makes me flinch in pain, and the charade is up.

"Go away," I mutter, opening one eye.

It's Peeta.

"Dad said I should bring you some dinner. Are you okay?" he whispers.

I don't respond.

"Mat told me she was really mad this time. ...Do you need anything?" he tries again, but I still don't respond. Finally, he reaches out and touches my hair, sticky with dried blood.

"Quit it!" I hiss.

Peeta withdraws his hand. I can't really make out his features in the dark, but I know he's just sitting there wearing this irritating, sad expression. Finally, he rises up on his feet and trudges back towards the steps.

Even though I'm the one shoving him away, I'm inexplicably angry that he's leaving. I'm also hungry, but too proud to eat the food he brought. So I flip the plate over and the fork goes clattering, which grabs his attention.

"Tell _Darrow_ that I don't want to eat any of your family's precious food!" I spit.

Peeta pauses for a moment. Then continues up the stairs.

"Goodnight, Katniss," he says softly when he reaches the top.

"Fuck you," I reply.

He closes the door quietly, but doesn't lock it.

* * *

A few days later at school, a girl named Serafine makes some snotty comment about my hair being greasy.

"Kind of like your face," I retort.

She laughs and shrugs off my comeback, then returns to talking to her friends. I, on the other hand, don't have any friends. Or the ability to just shrug anything off that easily.

The fact is, I haven't washed my hair because of the wound hidden beneath it. Soap hurts. Water hurts. Trying to brush the tangles out makes it bleed.

I narrow my eyes at the back of Serafine's head. Dumb bitch.

Peeta sits just a few seats in front of me and one row over. I can tell that he's heard our exchange by the way he looks down at his desk and cocks his head to the side just a little.

After school, if they're not scheduled to help at the bakery, Ry and Peeta go off with their respective groups of friends. I walk home alone. Actually, I usually loiter around the Hob for as long as I can, and only then do I head home. My favorite afternoons are actually the ones where I get to work around the ovens with Darrow. I know he's the one running the bakery right now. But I usually help before school, not after, and my hands are too bruised right now for me to be of much use anyway. So today, I simply head home.

My stomach twists into a knot as soon as I see the Mellarks' front door.

Hollis is in the kitchen, scrubbing. She glances up at me when I walk in, but then immediately goes back to her work. The way there's no recognition in her eyes when she looks at me is unnerving. I flip on the light switch for the cellar and head downstairs, lying on my mattress until she finally opens the door.

Without knocking, of course.

"Katniss, I expect you to join us for dinner tonight."

These last few nights, I've been eating alone in the cellar. It's my punishment for refusing to apologize to Hollis for the cleaning rag incident. So what she really means is that she's waiting for an apology, not that she actually wants me to be at dinner.

"Do you have anything to say?" she inquires.

I look up at her, lingering there at the top of the stairs. I search her face. Does she really want us to be friends? Or would she like to see me rot down here forever?

Her expression is blank, stony, uncaring.

I roll over and curl up on my side. That's my response.

"Your behavior is appalling, Katniss," she begins. I hate this, how she belittles and berates me. I think she enjoys provoking me.

"This is how a child behaves, not a sixteen year old!"

I wish I had friends. Then I could go somewhere else after school. Instead, I'm stuck here. Literally cornered.

"Are you going to acknowledge me? I am _speaking_ to you!"

She's getting more irritated. I'd better stop this now before it escalates. I roll over onto my back and stare straight up.

"Sorry," I mutter.

"I am sorry," Hollis corrects.

I grit my teeth.

"I _am_ sorry," I parrot, on the verge of disrespect.

"For what?"

"For… for being…" What? For being from the Seam? Being too stupid? Disgusting? Forgetful? Lazy? Selfish? Stubborn? Any number of the things she calls me?

Sorry for being me?

Humiliation shoots through my core at the list of sickening qualities running through my head. It floods my mental capacities and renders them useless. I roll onto my side and curl up even tighter than before, digging the heels of my palms into my closed eyes as if it will help me get a grip on my thoughts.

Hollis huffs in frustration, then really begins to shout. "You haven't thought about what you've done at all, have you!"

Her volume is rising. Oh, god. Here it comes.

"You haven't considered how much this family has sacrificed for you and how many problems you've caused! Katniss! Are you listening to me? Don't you think that your constant disrespect of me is upsetting to Darrow and the boys? We never fought like this before you arrived!"

I know that's not entirely true and she's blaming me for problems I have nothing to do with. It takes everything in me not to whip around and tell her so.

"_Are you listening to me?_" Hollis screams.

I am listening. She hates me, I get it. I hate me, too. The problem is that I'm close to crying, and I can't let her see me cry. That's worse than anything. So I say nothing at all.

Hollis rushes down the stairs, enraged at my lack of response. I feel myself sinking, knowing what's about to happen. She reaches down and takes hold of my shirt, tugging it up over my head.

"Stop!" I growl, clamping my arms to my sides so she can't, but the tears begin to spill over. I hate this, when she undresses me like I'm a child. This is even worse than when she hits me. It's degrading. It makes my skin crawl.

We struggle for a moment and she pulls me around roughly. I scream in anger, but then she slaps me across the side of my head, over and over until I raise my arms to cover myself, at which point the shirt is yanked up over my face, blinding me to her attack. Finally, I go limp and give up. She forces me out of the garment, re-opening the wound on the back of my head, then roughly sets to work tearing my pants off my legs in a similar fashion.

In the end, I just lie there in my socks and underwear, crying and covering my breasts with my arms. She stuffs the clothes I was just wearing into the crate with the others, then picks it up and looks down on me.

"No dinner," is all she says before mounting the stairs and slamming the door behind her, locking it tight.

Then the light goes out.


	3. Chapter 2: Walls

**Chapter 2: Walls**

After Hollis leaves with my crate of clothes, I pull the blanket over myself and curl up into a ball. It's not even dinnertime, but it's pitch black down here and there's nothing I can do besides cry and sleep. Once, I sang. Just an old song my father used to sing to me and Prim.

That made her mad.

Speaking of mad, my teachers will be mad at me for not completing my homework yet again.

I wish I hadn't come home. It seems like lately all I do is go to school, then come home and get locked in. Hollis never leaves the light on for me - she says it's a waste of electricity - and I have to knock to get out if I need to use the bathroom. Back when I was younger, she'd ignore me for so long that I'd wet myself. Now I've just learned to hold it in for hours longer than I ever thought I could. It's painful, but possible.

A while later, I hear Darrow come home. I don't know where Hollis is, but she's not in the kitchen up above me. He comes right to the cellar door and knocks.

"Katniss? Are you down there?"

"Yes," I say. My voice is hoarse from crying.

"Goddamn it," he mutters in frustration, turning on the light and throwing the door open. "I told her not to do this anymore. It's sick."

He hates it when his wife locks me down here and turns off the light, especially when we're having a particularly bad streak like we are now, because then she does it at any chance she gets.

"Come on," he says. "I hate you being locked up down there like a prisoner. Come upstairs and have some cookies. I brought your favorite."

I smile a little bit for the first time in days and tuck my blanket around me like a long dress. Upstairs on a clean plate are four empire cookies. Each cookie consists of two sugary halves with jam squished between them and a thin layer of sweet icing drizzled over top. Next to the plate is a tall glass of milk. Darrow ruffles my hair before I sit down. It hurts, but I don't have the heart to tell him.

"My Katniss," he sighs, nudging the plate towards me. I like it when he calls me that, but Darrow could call me anything and I'd like it. "I'll go get you something to wear," he mutters to himself as he heads upstairs. We both know very well that my having no clothes means Hollis and I fought (and she won), but neither Darrow or I actually voice it.

I don't even care about what I'm wearing at the moment. I've got cookies. They're a rare treat, even for the baker's family, and these are particularly fancy ones. I sit at the table and happily start munching away, dunking the sweet, crumbly bits into my milk.

I'm on the third one when Hollis walks in from the living room with her hair wrapped in a towel. Her face registers shock as her eyes shoot towards the cellar door - which is now wide open - then square back on me. I freeze with the cookie halfway to my mouth, then quickly put it back down on the plate. When she sees what it is, she flies into a rage.

"_Darrow!_" She screams, furious with him for giving me such a costly snack. He answers something from upstairs, but it doesn't matter because she's already turning her rage on me.

"He let me," I explain through a mouthful of crumbs, backing away from the table. "He said I could eat them."

"I don't care! Spit it out! Spit that out! You don't deserve it," she insists, closing in on me and smacking the side of my head. I cough and start to spit out the remains of the half-chewed cookie into my palm, but it's not enough for Hollis. She wrenches my hair and I choke. "And your hair is disgusting!" she shouts, as if this is some kind of surprise. She already knew very well that it was dirty and unwashed, but suddenly it bothers her. "Go upstairs and take a shower! Whose house do you think you're living in? This isn't The Seam!"

I'm halfway up the stairs when she adds, "And don't waste the hot water!"

I run myself a lukewarm shower, but then think the better of it and make it cold instead. Using my fingertips as lightly as possible, I soap my head. I try to avoid the wound on my scalp, but suds still get in it and set it on fire. The water going down the drain is tinted pink.

Two minutes of cold water, and I'm done. That's it. Hollis doesn't like me using her conditioner, so my hair will still be in a snarl of tangles that I'll need to pick out later, but at least it's not greasy anymore. I don't know which towel to use and fear that something as small as picking the wrong one will set her off again, so I stand there, dripping, until I finally decide to just wrap myself back up in my blanket.

Darrow and Hollis are fighting downstairs in the kitchen. It's about me. Their fights are always about me. I run into Mat on the stairs and he shoots me a withering look.

I slink into the kitchen and ease open the cellar door, just wanting to disappear. Unfortunately, my movement catches Hollis' attention.

"I'll bet you used up all the hot water again!" she accuses, pointing a finger. I don't have it in me to tell her that I didn't use any hot water at all. Then Darrow jumps in and tells her that she's being ridiculous and hot water is there to be used, that's what it's for, and they resume their argument.

I don't say anything. My hair drips down my back and soaks into my blanket.

Instead of returning to the cellar, I turn around and slip out the back door, unnoticed.

It's twilight and the alley is empty. I'm not really sure where I'm going. All that I know is that I have to get out of that house. I exit through the gate and then slump down beside the garbage bin, shivering.

I'm _Seam trash_, so it seems appropriate that this is where I've ended up. Again.

"Kat?"

My head snaps up. It's Peeta. He's out here, too.

"Are you okay?" he asks. It's all he seems to ask, lately.

I nod robotically. _I'm fine._

A barrage of yelling can be heard coming inside the house. He looks towards the back door resentfully.

"Sorry," I say.

"Not your fault," he answers.

But it is my fault. Clearly. I wish he would just admit it and stop pretending like he sees something decent in me. Sometimes Peeta's patience and… and _goodness_ just frustrate me.

All of a sudden, I hear a loud sniff. I look up and see that his eyes are dangerously close to watering over.

"I was just trying to help you that day… that rainy day, back when you were little, when I told my dad that I saw you outside the bakery. I just wanted to help you. I never knew that she'd… that it'd become…" but he breaks down into tears before he can finish his sentence.

I'm speechless. Peeta blames himself?

"I'm sorry, Katniss," he sobs. I don't know what to say to make him stop, and it breaks my heart when Peeta cries.

I wish he'd stop.

He sits down in the dirt next to me and gives me a light hug so as not to irritate any of my bruises. It's kind of pathetic that we both know to be careful of that kind of thing. I don't know how to respond, so I don't do anything at all. I just let him hug me.

"Your hair is soaked," he sniffles. Then he takes off his jacket and drapes it over me.

"Don't," I say, trying to hand it back. "Really, I'm fine." But I'm honestly lot warmer once he convinces me to put it on.

"Peet?" Darrow calls from the doorway. "Are you out here?"

"Yeah, Dad," he calls back.

"Have you seen Katniss?"

"She's here," he answers, then shoots me an apologetic look, as if he hadn't meant to say it.

I hear Darrow's footsteps coming towards us and I scrunch my eyes closed. I don't want him to see us like this, weeping together by the trash bins. Peeta's doting is bad enough. He's dangerously close to breaking through the tough front I put up, and I don't think my heart could take it if he did.

"Come on inside," Darrow says gently. "Come on. I'm sorry about all that. I really am. We're all going to have a nice family dinner, okay? With everyone together. Come on in now, Peeta. I have your clothes for you, Kat. Don't want to catch a cold."

* * *

As it turns out, I do catch a cold. I get sent home from school around lunchtime a few days later. In a daze, my feet take me to the bakery, where Darrow repeats the head teacher's instructions and sends me home to rest. He also gives me a loaf of day-old bread to take back for everyone.

When I get in, Hollis isn't there. I put the bread on the kitchen counter, stumble down the stairs into the darkness, and crawl onto my mattress. My head throbs and sleep quickly consumes me.

"Katniss!"

I wake up to her calling my name. My thoughts feel slow and fuzzy. Hollis standing at the top of the stairs, but she doesn't seem angry. Yet.

"Please come help me with supper. ...Now," she adds, when I take too long to get up.

I make it to the top of the stairs before getting lightheaded and bumping into the wall. Hollis gives me a strange look.

"What's wrong with you?"

"I'm sick," is all I say. There's no point in asking for permission to rest, like I'm supposed to. Hollis will just say no, and I will probably get slapped for asking.

She narrows her eyes at my statement as if she doesn't believe me.

"Come peel the potatoes."

If I do exactly as she says, no more, no less, maybe she'll stay this calm. I peel the potatoes and take care not to leave any brown spots, but after only a few minutes she's back on my case.

"What are you doing? You're peeling away the good parts! We don't have the money to waste perfectly good potatoes! Or are you too stupid to understand that? Oh, just get out of here. I'll do it." She grabs the potato peeler from my hand and elbows me away.

So much for that.

I'm about to go back to the cellar when Hollis stops me.

"Katniss," she says sharply, then glances at the couch and hesitates. "Go lie down in the living room. Or," she reconsiders, "go take the boys' room, upstairs. But don't make a mess."

I guess this comfort is being offered to me so Hollis won't have any trouble from Darrow when he gets home. She'll be able to say that she took good care of me.

But my body feels like lead and I'm too tired to care what her motive is. I drag myself upstairs and curl up on Peeta's empty bed.

* * *

When I wake up, he's there with his arms wrapped around me.

It's how we used to sleep when we were kids. I had nightmares after my parents and Prim died, and Peeta was the one who comforted me. We shared this bed for years - inseparable, like twins.

Now we barely even speak.

He's not asleep, just holding me protectively. The room is dim, with only the faint glow of the setting sun illuminating the curtains. It's so peaceful. And I so rarely get a moment of peace that I can't help but want to savor it.

"Hi Peet," I whisper.

"Hey Kat," he mumbles into my hair. When I don't make any move to push him away, he asks, "Are you finally gonna let me take care of you?"

"... Maybe," I answer after a moment, but we both know it's a bad idea.

"I heard you were sick."

"Yeah."

He squeezes me a little in response and we're both quiet for a long time.

"I miss you," he eventually says. He sounds sad.

"I miss you too," I reply. And I mean it.

Peeta tightens his arms around me and nuzzles in even closer.

"I still love you," he finally whispers, right in my ear.

I freeze. Loving me is dangerous in the Mellark household.

"You shouldn't," I warn him.

As if on cue, footsteps start up the stairs.

"Peeta?" calls Hollis.

I instantly feel nauseous.

"Get away from me," I whisper frantically, pushing his arms away.

"No."

"Don't you remember what happened last time?" I hiss.

He swallows hard. I'm about to shove him right off the bed when he jumps to his feet and bolts into the hall, intercepting his mother before she can make it to the bedroom and find us together.

"Yeah, mom? I'm here."


	4. Chapter 3: Pawns

**Chapter 3: Pawns**

The metallic tang of blood fills my mouth as I hit the ground.

Hollis is not a delicate woman. As the smallest person in the house, I'm no match for her. But my big mouth doesn't seem to know that, and that's how I get into trouble. If I was a meeker sort of girl she could slap me once to shut me up. But I'm not. So she hits me until I beg her to stop, or until she's done so much damage that I have no choice but to shut up. Whichever comes first.

Damaged is what I am right now, in a twisted pile at the bottom of the stairs. Silent, the way she likes it. The wind has been knocked out of my lungs and I can't even breathe, let alone speak. My chest feels like it's been stomped on. Blood is pouring out of my nose and my lip is split. I can't feel it though – my whole face is numb.

After a long, ringing silence with my eyes squeezed shut, I finally take in a huge gasp of air. A sharp pain ricochets through my chest and deep into my back.

I hear a door slam above and I know it's Hollis, but I can't remember what I did that made her push me down the stairs. I can't even remember falling. My heartbeat is throbbing in my ears and behind my eyelids and even in my teeth.

When I open my eyes, I see Ryland sitting at the kitchen table, staring back at me. He's grown so big that I'm sure that Hollis wouldn't dare to hit him anymore. He even made the wrestling team this year. But he never interferes with our fights. In fact, he acts like nothing unusual is happening at all. Right now he's watching me bleed all over the place while chewing slowly on a bite of his sandwich, as if it happens every day. Which, I guess, it pretty much does.

My cheek is pressed to the cold floor and my breath is coming out in quick, pained little spurts. When I exhale, little crimson droplets splatter across the tile.

Eventually, Ry shoves his chair back and gets up. He steps over my crumpled form on his way upstairs. I don't ask for help and he doesn't offer it.

I eventually, somehow, crawl to the cellar, leaving bloody streaks along the way. I don't know how I make it down the stairs. As soon as I get to my mattress, I pass out.

* * *

_Katniss?_

Someone is saying my name. Fingers are prying under my eyelids, trying to open them.

_Katniss? Wake up…_

I hear other words, but none of them make sense. I'm swimming through darkness. It's almost peaceful, except for the nausea.

Suddenly, I get a flash of reality; I'm hunched over, vomiting onto my own knees. Someone is holding me up. Then everything goes dark once again.

This time, there's no swimming.

* * *

"It's a concussion," Darrow tells me, smoothing my hair. He's got me all tucked in with blankets and pillows on the couch in the cramped living room. At some point, somebody cleaned me up and put me in a nightgown. "You just rest," he instructs. "You're not going to school. Hollis is at the bakery today and I'm staying home with you."

His face is lined with worry and he sounds ashamed. As if he could've prevented it.

"Thank you," I say, my voice cracking. It's the first time I've said anything to Darrow in days. The more we bond, the more hostile Hollis gets towards us both. So I try not to let myself get too close to him, hoping to prevent as many fights as possible.

It's the same story with Peeta, only worse.

Darrow goes to the kitchen and returns with a brown paper bag. Inside are sweet multigrain cookies shaped like owls. With wordless smiles, we break them apart and share them like a secret. A while later we build a house out of playing cards, and I even laugh without being scared of upsetting anyone. Afterwards, I fall asleep holding his hand, not having really realized until that moment how much I missed the feeling of being safe.

When I wake up from my nap I'm tucked back in, but Darrow is gone. I can hear Hollis' voice in the kitchen. She's talking to Peeta, but she doesn't sound irritated. She's not being short with him. It's much worse.

She sounds happy.

Her laugh rings out and all the tension that my day alone with Darrow had dispelled instantly returns. Hollis' laughter is one of the most terrifying sounds I've ever heard.

The next thing I know, she's at the doorway.

"Katniss," she smiles. "You're awake. Good. I have a spot for you at the table. Do you think you feel well enough to join us?"

I'm stupefied. Absolutely speechless. She's happy. She's _inviting_ me to dinner. She's smiling at me.

_Smiling._

My blood runs cold. I keep waiting for the catch, for that mouthful of lion's teeth to open up and eat me alive, but they're too busy grinning at me in a happy little row.

"You just make your way in when you're ready, sweetheart," she says musically, disappearing back into the kitchen.

_Sweetheart?_

Is this one of the effects of having a concussion? Am I hallucinating?

Hesitantly and still a little wobbly, I make my way into the kitchen, fearing the worst. Everyone is seated at the table, passing around a meatloaf and a bowl of green beans that glisten with a generous amount of butter. And just as Hollis had promised, there is an empty place setting awaiting me.

I numbly make my way over to the chair and grip the back. I lower myself into the seat. The good china is out.

"Potatoes?" Hollis asks me. I nod dumbly.

She must've poisoned them. Oh, god, she's poisoned them.

That's when I really look around and realize there's an extra person at our table. She's sitting right across from me and is staring at my scabbed lip.

"Hey, Katniss," Aspen Anscomb says slowly. I recognize her from school, but I don't really know her. Long, honey-colored hair. The only daughter of the butcher or shoemaker or some townie-merchant thing like that. Not the type to associate with me, even if I was likable. "What happened to your lip?" she asks, wrinkling her pretty, freckled nose in disgust.

Everyone around the table seems to collectively hold their breath except for Hollis, who spoons a large dollop of creamy mashed potatoes onto my plate. It's a bigger serving than she's ever given me.

"I fell," I answer hoarsely, then jam a forkful of potatoes into my mouth before Aspen can ask me any more questions.

"Well, you are accident-prone, dear," Hollis chuckles.

I almost choke on my food and look wildly to Darrow for some explanation, but he's smiling for the sake of company. Peeta's eyes are fixed on his lap. Ry is staring right at me unabashedly, as usual, and Hollis, Mat and Aspen are striking up a lively conversation, oblivious to everyone else's strange silence.

Finally Peeta looks up from underneath his long, blonde lashes. While Hollis is distracted, I catch his eye and shoot him a look that asks, _what the hell is going on?_

In response, he slowly moves his hand on top of Aspen's, which is resting delicately next to her dinner plate. She laces her fingers with his and gives his hand a squeeze, oblivious and chattering away to Hollis, who clearly adores her.

Her fingernails are painted robin's egg blue. I stare at their entwined hands with my fork halfway to my mouth for what feels like a long time.

Now I understand.

They're together. Peeta and Aspen. And this dinner is Hollis' way of encouraging it, of throwing it in my face.

I won't cry. I won't. I blink away my tears and look away from their clasped hands only to find Ry still staring at me. He's seen everything.

I'm suddenly enraged.

"Will you quit looking at me!" I explode without warning, dropping my fork with a loud clang.

Aspen abruptly stops mid-sentence and the table goes quiet. Everyone's eyes are on me.

"More potatoes, darling?" Hollis smiles.

* * *

After supper, Peeta and Aspen go for a walk and Hollis tells me to help her dry the dishes. Robotically, I swipe the towel over the front and back of each wet plate. I'm probably doing it wrong, but she's so busy gushing over Aspen that she's not criticizing my work as usual.

"And what lovely parents," she glows. "Such a quality family. That's the kind of girl Peeta should be married to. I think we'll be seeing a lot more of –"

She's interrupted by a loud smash because I've dropped one of her lovely, expensive plates. I might've done it on purpose, just to shut her up.

Hollis stares at me in disbelief, which steadily builds into a look of absolute rage. I meet her eyes unapologetically. The vein in the middle of her forehead is protruding, and she's already red-faced. What's she going to do, kill me?

She might. She could. But it does it really matter anymore?

"Stop, stop," Darrow interrupts, appearing out of nowhere and diffusing the situation before his wife can even get her first words out. He wrenches the dishtowel from my tightly clenched hand and puts it on the counter, then steers me away by my shoulders. "Go to bed! _Now!_" he hisses in my ear, actually sounding angry with me for once. He guides me to the cellar and waits until I'm at the bottom of the stairs before turning off the lights and closing the door.

Then he locks it.

At the sound of the metal turning, knowing it was Darrow who did it, my heart shatters into a million pieces. All the tears I've been holding in begin to leak uncontrollably out of the corners of my eyes. His betrayal stings so much that I can barely breathe.

Upstairs, I hear Hollis sobbing sentimentally over her wedding china.

"She's not thinking clearly, Holl. Remember, she has a concussion," Darrow soothes her. "Don't cry, love. We'll buy new ones."


	5. Chapter 4: Hunger and Games

**Chapter 4: Hunger and Games**

The next day, Hollis won't even look at me.

Darrow's sympathy towards me has waned since the incident, and whatever he has left is completely consumed by his wife. On top of that, I'm bitterly hurt by his locking me in the cellar. It was somehow worse than all the hundreds of times Hollis had done it because I had actually trusted him. We now work silently alongside one another during the early morning shift at the bakery, not speaking or even making eye contact.

At school, Peeta and Aspen eat lunch with their loud, outgoing group of friends. I watch as she slides in next to him and plays with his hair, scratching the back of his neck lightly with those pale blue fingernails. Jealousy boils up inside me. I slept with my face pressed against Peeta's neck for years; I know the warmth of his skin, the scent of the soap he uses. That's _my_ territory.

I force myself to look away.

That night, Hollis doesn't set a place for me at dinner. Hungry, I resolve to steal something from the pantry when no one is watching. But I never get the chance. When the boys get up from the table and silently climb the stairs to their room, I know that I'm expected to return to the cellar, too. So I do, and all too soon, the door is locked behind me for another night. I quietly cry myself to sleep, my empty stomach cleaving to my backbone.

A handful of nuts or crackers wouldn't have been worth the beating, anyways.

After a few more days of missed dinners, I start to genuinely wonder if I'm invisible. One day before school, Peeta conveniently 'forgets' his packed lunch on the counter. I'm just reaching for it when I'm assaulted by the mental image of him and Aspen together. My hand recoils as if I've been burned.

The next morning at the bakery while Darrow is kneading a special batch of orange-tinted yam dough for sweet buns, I put both of my floury hands atop one of his and squeeze.

_Please, please love me,_ I beg him with my eyes, coaxing him to look at me. I need his forgiveness. I can't take the isolation anymore.

He gives me a tight smile, pats the top of my grasping hands and tries to move, but I cling to him.

"Katniss…" he sighs uncomfortably. He has to pry my fingers away so he can finish his work.

It feels like I've been punched in the stomach. I leave the bakery in a hollow stupor, not even remembering to rinse off my flour-covered hands. Instead of going straight to school like I'm supposed to, I spend the day wandering aimlessly around the District. At the Hob, a woman named Greasy Sae cooks up a huge pot of stew that she then sells by the bowlful. The delicious scent alone makes my stomach rumble with hunger, but I have nothing to trade for food, and no one would ever suspect that I'd be going hungry while living with the Mellarks. So I just keep walking.

I pass the train tracks and abandon my heavy book bag there, but purposely avoid the meadow because of its painful association with Peeta. It's where we first...

I don't want to think about it.

I eventually loop back around and end up in the Seam, standing in front of my old house. It's occupied by another family now. A thin trail of grey smoke rises from the pipe in the sagging roof, and one of the porch steps has collapsed completely. Other than that, it looks the same.

Sometimes I wonder what my life would've been like had my family survived. I catalogue my only memories: My father had nice teeth and a warm singing voice. And, unlike Hollis, my mother never hit me or Prim. And Prim was the happiest baby. When we were small, we were bathed together in a washtub with a foamy pink bar of soap. I wish I could recall more than that, but the singing and the soap and the smell of the coal dust are nearly it. That life was gone by the time I was in the second grade.

Once the sky has gone dark, I trudge back to the Mellarks'. I have nowhere else to go. When I arrive, all the lights are off and the front door is locked. I head around back and up the lane to find the kitchen window still faintly aglow. Just as I get to the door, it swings open and a big pair of red hands yanks me inside.

"Where have you been?" Hollis snaps, gripping my wrists so tightly that my fingers start to go numb. "Answer me! Out with boys?"

Hollis is a woman who is concerned first and foremost with appearances and what the neighbors might think. There is a rule in the Mellark household that says we are not allowed to be out after dark. And, like all the rules, it applies most heavily to me.

"No!" I answer truthfully, though I really don't think it would matter either way. She's already angry.

"See what I mean? You can't get the truth out of this one," she hisses, addressing someone over my shoulder. That's when I realize that Darrow has been standing behind the door this whole time. He's completely silent. I also notice that my book bag has been retrieved and is sitting on one of the kitchen chairs. I guess that means that someone was out searching for me.

But it's only once Darrow steps towards me that I notice what's in his hands.

It's a leather belt.

Hollis shakes my throbbing wrists.

"Don't you know what time it is?" she demands. Then she roughly pulls me towards edge of the kitchen table, still holding my wrists in her iron grip. Another pair of hands shove my shirt up my back, exposing my skin.

I know what's coming. I heard Ry get whipped one time after he accidentally broke a window. But the whole situation doesn't actually feel real until one of Darrow's hands closes over the back of my neck to guide me facedown against the table. Only then do I start to cry.

"Shut up, you stupid girl! You brought this on yourself!"

"I'm sorry, Katniss," Darrow says hollowly from behind me, just before the first lash of the belt slices into my back. It cracks loudly against my skin and I scream.

Hollis hisses at me to be quiet, but footsteps are already pounding down the stairs. "Go back to bed," she barks at whoever is there. I turn my head to see Peeta and Ry standing at the railing.

Peeta looks like he did the day Hollis broke my arm behind the bakery - his little apprehensive face peering through the speckled curtains.

"Ma, where was–" Ry starts, but Peeta cuts him off, his voice furious.

"I didn't tell you she was missing so you could hurt her!" he screams at Darrow.

"Get upstairs!" Darrow shouts back.

I've never heard either of them yell at each other.

"Dad!"

"Back to bed! Now!" Darrow booms, with the most anger I've ever heard from him. It frightens me so much that my whole body actually shakes. Both boys look at their father in disbelief and slowly retreat up the stairs.

A moment later, the second lash comes. Then the third, then the fourth. Each blow sears into my skin, causing my body to jerk and my teeth to smash into each other. The force steals my breath. I can't even cry out. All I can do is squeeze my eyes shut until I see explosions of color behind my eyelids. I keep waiting for the pain to pass, but it doesn't - the sting only intensifies. My back grows wet with blood and I can smell it in the air. Finally, my lungs release the sickening wail that's been building up inside them. Darrow hesitates, and I slide sideways across the table a bit by kicking my legs.

"No, no!" is all I manage to gasp. It's the only word I have enough energy for. _Please, no more._

"Will you hold her still, Holl? For god's sake," Darrow says above me, his voice breaking a little.

I stop counting the lashes as they blur together and the pain overtakes me.

The next thing I know, I'm lying face down on my mattress in the dark, naked from the waist up. Footsteps are retreating. The last thing I see before I pass out is a plate of crackers and glass of water sitting on the floor beside my bed.

* * *

"Katniss?"

I open my eyes and see Peeta's silhouette. He's whispering my name. It takes me a moment to figure out that it's the middle of the night and he must've snuck down to the cellar.

"Katniss?" he asks again, leaning in closer to my face.

Looking at him, I suddenly remember his cryptic argument with Darrow while I was being whipped, and I put the pieces together.

"You told," I whisper.

"What?"

Peeta must've told Darrow that I skipped school. First the betrayal with Aspen and now this? My hatred for him burns.

"Katniss?" Peeta asks again, his voice wavering.

But I don't have the energy to deal with him, so I close my eyes.

* * *

I'm forced to stay home from school, seeing as I can't even put on a shirt. My wounds reopen every time I move, so I have to lie face down on my mattress most of the time. When I have to urinate, I crawl over to the corner and use a bowl, and I only make my way upstairs when I absolutely have to.

One day, I wake up to find an owl cookie on the plate of crackers beside my bed. Darrow must feel really terrible about whipping me.

I turn my head to the other side so I won't have to look at it.

* * *

A few days later I'm sitting gingerly at the table, bandaged up and facing a plate of food. It's sparse compared to everyone else's portions, but it looks like plenty to me.

"Eat," Hollis insists, pouring a glass of milk and putting it down in front of me. I haven't eaten a full meal in at least a week, but the smell of the hot food isn't appealing at all. I just feel sick.

I look down at my plate. It's some kind of vegetable stew. I can make out chunks of carrots and peas in the thick gravy.

"Maybe start with the milk," Darrow suggests in the gentle tone that I used to trust. I don't even look at him, but I do reach for the glass and take a sip. It feels strange to swallow something again, but it's nice and cool on my parched throat. I finish it by the time everyone else has cleaned their plates and are clearing the dishes from the table.

"Eat your food," Hollis insists again. "I won't have it go to waste."

"We have dessert tonight," Darrow adds quickly. "In fact, Peeta's making the icing for the cake right now."

_Cake_. One of the most expensive, decadent things in the bakery.

I lift a spoonful of stew to my mouth, but my lips won't open. I just feel too sick. I hesitate, put the spoon down, then try again. I only manage to swallow a couple of bites before it all comes back up, right onto my plate. Everyone in the kitchen pauses to look.

"Oh god," Mat mutters, throwing down the dish cloth in disgust and leaving the room. Hollis' lips compress into a thin, angry line and her nostrils flare.

"Was it too much to ask of you to just _eat_ a _nice meal_?" she explodes, as if I threw up on purpose. I look at the spoon still clutched in my hand and start to cry weakly. My body hurts so much and I just can't take any more right now.

Despite Darrow's protests, Hollis rips the spoon from my fingers, grabs the back of my neck and starts trying to shovel everything on the plate - including my own vomit - into my mouth.

"How is it now? Good?" she shouts, jamming the spoon against my tightly pressed lips. The metal bangs into my teeth. Ry is standing near the wall, staring as usual, but for once he seems visibly bothered by the scene unfolding before him.

"Stop it! Stop!" Darrow shouts over top of his enraged wife. He shoves the plate out of her reach and tries to wrestle the spoon from her hand.

Just then, a loud crash interrupts all the commotion.

Peeta has thrown the mixing bowl against the wall. Icing drips from the wallpaper and broken pieces of crockery are scattered across the floor. Hollis stares at him in disbelief. He then goes to the oven, rips the cake out with his bare hands and drops it to the floor, burning himself in the process. The baking pan clangs loudly against the tile, and half-baked cake splatters everywhere.

"Peeta!" Hollis shrieks in horror, forgetting all about me, but he doesn't stop. Sucking his burnt fingers, he stomps over to the pantry and tears it open, then begins to throw jar after jar to the floor; peach preserves and applesauce and pickles and crushed tomatoes all spray across the kitchen floor with the deafening sound of smashing glass. Hollis screams something again and tries to approach him but can only get so close because of the jars he keeps throwing. He doesn't slow down or stop to acknowledge her at all.

Ry is grinning. Darrow looks absolutely lost. Mat reemerges, takes one look at the scene that's unfolding, and bolts from the house, slamming the door behind him.

To anyone else, it would look like the whole family has gone insane. But I know exactly what Peeta is doing.

He's protecting me.

With an eerie calm, I go over to the sink to wash the sick off my face and hands.

No one even notices.

* * *

Hollis is too preoccupied with screaming at her youngest son that evening to remember to lock the cellar door. So after I hear the last of the glass being swept up and the kitchen light snaps off, I sneak upstairs to the bedrooms.

Everything is dark. I can hear Darrow's snores, even from the hallway. I pause outside of the boys' room for a moment to gather the courage I need, then I turn the handle.

All I can see in the dim moonlight is the outline of Peeta's sleeping form. Ry is the lump occupying the other bed, and Mat's is empty. He must've taken refuge at the bakery for yet another night.

Silently, I pad over to Peeta and lift the covers, then carefully lower myself down beside him. He stirs and turns over at the movement.

"Katniss?" he asks. There's a fresh welt on his cheek.

"Shh," I whisper, wrapping my arms around him. He scrubs the back his hand over his eyes, then fully faces me and wraps his arms around me, too. He smiles and presses his face into my neck.

"Katniss," he murmurs happily into the soft space just above my collarbone. Peeta inhales deeply and then kisses the spot. It makes me tingle. His arms tighten around my waist and I squeak a little, still in pain from the whipping. "Sorry," he breathes, loosening his grip and bringing his lips softly to mine.

I return his kiss, lapping gently at his mouth to deepen it. Peeta responds immediately, drawing tiny, throaty sounds out of me with each stroke of his tongue against mine. One of his hands finds its way up into my hair. He strokes a lock between thumb and forefinger over and over, as if it's something precious. Very carefully, he maneuvers me onto my back and rises up over me.

"Is this okay?" he whispers against my lips.

"Yes," I exhale.

"I'm not hurting you?"

"No."

Pale white moonlight filters through the curtains and illuminates his face. His eyes are shining.

"I still love you," he says quietly. "Do you believe me?"

"Yes," I smile. Really smile. Then I wrap my fingers around the back of his neck and pull him down for another kiss.

Across the room, sheets rustle and Ry's head pops up from his bed. He looks at us, tangled together, and blinks sleepily. Then he slowly rolls away and puts his head back down, pulling his blankets up to his ears.

He knows what's going on and he's not about to say anything.

Peeta draws my nightgown up my body and bunches it up near my collarbone. His hands glide across my ribs and squeeze lightly at my breasts, then he runs his mouth across them with gentle sucking sounds. We work together to slide the elastic waistband of his shorts down to his thighs, and I finish pushing them off his legs using my feet.

His fingers slip between my thighs and he sinks one inside my body, moving it slowly while his thumb grazes the sensitive spot just above my opening. I sigh into his mouth. Our lips still joined, I reach down and wrap my fingers around his length. The weight is familiar in my hand; he's hard, and his skin is smooth and hot.

"Oh," Peeta exhales softly as my thumb slides through the moisture that's gathered at the tip. I push away the hand he's using to pleasure me and spread my legs wider, guiding our bodies together. We rub against each other wetly for a moment, and then he sinks into me, holding back a moan by exhaling shakily against my mouth instead. We stay frozen that way for a minute, just relishing the feeling of being connected.

"I missed you," I whisper, holding onto him as we begin to move together.

* * *

Early the next morning, someone grabs my shoulder and shakes me awake. I'm still wrapped in Peeta's arms. His breath is falling evenly against my forehead.

I look up to see Ry standing above us. He nods towards the door.

"They'll be waking up soon," he whispers.

I lift Peeta's warm, heavy arm and slip out of his protective embrace. When I get to the door, I turn back to face Ry for a second.

"Thanks."


	6. Chapter 5: Family Secrets

**Chapter 5: Family Secrets**

The next morning, I'm expected to return to school. Darrow covertly hands me a brown bag while Hollis out of the kitchen. He's packed a lunch for me.

"Katniss, wait," he adds, just as I'm turning to leave. He searches my face and seems to be struggling to say something. I can tell he feels ashamed for whipping me, even though I did break a rule. He wants to ask for my forgiveness, but he can't, not quite. "Be good at school today, okay?" he says instead.

I nod stiffly.

My book bag rubs painfully against the bandaged-up lashes on my back, causing blood to start blotting through my shirt by the time I get to school. My first thought isn't even that I'm bleeding again – it's that Hollis will be mad about the stains. I dab at the fabric using damp paper towels from the girls' bathroom, but it doesn't do much good. I resort to unbraiding my long hair to hide the back of my shirt.

As soon as I take my seat in history, Serafine whips around from her place in front of me and smiles. Her friends look on expectantly as her green eyes flicker down to my scabbed-over lip. With false sweetness she asks, "Did your boyfriend do that?" Then she giggles and adds, "Oh, wait! You don't _have_ a boyfriend."

I glance towards Peeta's empty desk as the girls' laughter rings out. He's not there. He's standing with a cluster of people near the classroom door, holding Aspen's hand. I vividly remember the way their fingers entwined as they held hands across from me at the dinner table. Those eggshell-blue fingernails of hers.

I remember Peeta's fingers inside of me last night.

My chest feels tight.

Without a second thought, I swiftly punch Serafine in the mouth.

She just stares at me at first, stunned. Then her hands fly up to her mouth and her face crumples. It takes a moment for her dumb friends to get over their initial shock, but then they rush to her side, patting her back and stroking her hair and asking if she's okay.

She starts to sob.

_Wimp_, I think. I didn't even cry when Hollis hurled me down the stairs.

"What the hell is wrong with you, Katniss!" Maddy Brewster shrieks, sticking up for her friend.

"Do you want one, too?" I ask her flatly. She shoots me a look of disgust but keeps her distance.

"Katniss Everdeen! Outside! Now!" our teacher commands, appearing beside my seat and grabbing me by the elbow to usher me out of the classroom. She's not being particularly rough, but with the cuts and bruises hidden beneath my sweater, the tug on my arm is enough to make me wince. Peeta notices my discomfort right away and I catch his mask of indifference slip for a second. He's the only one who knows about the bandages beneath my clothes - the only one who has seen my bruised, naked body.

Aspen presses up against him as I'm being escorted out the door, as if she's afraid to be near me.

"She's crazy," I hear someone mutter as I exit the room.

* * *

I get two week's detention for fighting and I'm suspended for the remainder of the day. Accompanying me home is an incident report for my 'parent or guardian' to sign, which I must return to the school by next week.

I didn't even try to explain myself when they asked why I'd done it.

I walk home clutching the crumpled report tightly in my fist. This letter guarantees another beating. I could drop it in the gutter, but the school would eventually contact Darrow or Hollis and then I'd only be in more trouble. When I pass the fence that separates District 12 from the forest beyond, I seriously consider running away. But there are wild animals out there that would tear me to pieces if the peacekeepers didn't catch me first.

At least the house is empty when I arrive. That buys me some time. I jam the letter underneath my mattress so I don't have to look at it, then I try to figure out what I'm going to tell Hollis when she gets home.

But as it turns out, I don't have to worry about explaining it. Someone else has already done me the favor.

Just seconds after I trudge back up the cellar stairs, Hollis storms through the back door in a rage. She immediately grabs me by my hair and slaps me hard across the face. There's no lead-up. No warning. I don't even have a chance to plead my case before she starts to yell.

Apparently, Serafine's father had just come into the bakery and given Hollis an earful on controlling 'her daughter.' I don't know what upset her more - the fact that my actions had angered a customer, or the fact that he'd referred to me as her flesh-and-blood child.

"How dare you!" Hollis screams, slapping me again and backing me up against the wall. "How _dare _you! After all we've done for you! After feeding you and clothing you and putting a roof over your head all these years!" She emphasizes each point with another slap. "Ungrateful, selfish brat! Ruining our good name! You think of no one but yourself! _Seam trash! Worthless!_ Just like the family you came from!"

My ears are ringing and my cheeks and mouth have gone numb. I try to cover myself and twist away, but she yanks me back by my hair and I yelp.

_"Look at me when I'm speaking to you!"_ she explodes, backhanding me across the eye. Black spots invade my vision and the kitchen floor tilts sideways as I crash into it.

* * *

The next thing I know, we're in the bathroom and she's screaming at me in the mirror, clutching my skull between her two red hands and forcing me to stare at myself.

"Look!" she shouts, shaking me. "Just look! _Pathetic, stupid, ugly thing!_ No one wants you!"

I see a pair of lifeless grey eyes and a mess of dark hair with Hollis' chapped fingers tangled in it. There are red marks on my cheeks, my lip has split open yet again, and the side of my eye is puffy and swollen. A thin stream of blood is dripping down my chin. I look tiny being crushed between her palms.

"I'm sor-" I start to beg.

But she's beyond reasoning.

"You are worthless! Absolute trash! We took you in and gave you a home, and _this_ is how you repay us?"

Hollis turns on the tap and I suddenly find my face forced under the stream of freezing cold water. The temperature shocks me and I momentarily loose all sense of my surroundings. Then my lungs begin to burn for air. I brace my hands against the edge of the counter and try to push myself up, but Hollis holds me down. The burn in my lungs intensifies. My chin and nose smash against the bottom of the sink and I make a gurgling noise. I need air. I need to breathe. My lungs scream for oxygen. My head feels like it's going to explode. Desperate, I kick Hollis in the legs. She grunts, then hits me square in the back with her fist, right on top of my bandages.

I completely seize up in pain. Water rushes into my mouth and down my throat. My body starts to convulse as I choke.

I'm dying. This is it.

* * *

I'm not dead.

Why am I not dead?

I'm lying in the bathtub. The shower is spraying cold water down onto me even though I'm fully dressed. The only warm thing I can feel is the sticky trickle of blood that runs down my chin.

My breath rattles in my chest. I'm in too much pain to even cry.

Hollis appears above me and hauls me to my feet, which makes the whole room spin. I immediately vomit a mess of bile, water and foamy blood down my front.

"Stand up, Katniss," she insists, but I can't seem to get my bearings. I close my eyes to get a grip on the overwhelming dizziness and cling to Hollis' arms since she's the only thing holding me up. A second later, I vomit again.

I want my mother. She would know what to do, how to fix me.

"Mother," I mew, just before I faint in Hollis' arms.

* * *

When Peeta gets home he gets hit, too. I know because I can hear the blows, even from where I am in the cellar, lying on my mattress with my wet clothes still plastered to my body.

Hollis starts by berating him for witnessing what happened at school and not doing anything about it. She lectures him on family loyalty and calls him stupid, weak and "soft, like Darrow." Callously, she even dares him to hit her to prove that he's a man. But Peeta takes his mother's abuse in silence, never even talking back, let alone lifting his hand to her.

"I can't stand to look at you!" Hollis finally finishes. "Get upstairs. No dinner."

It's only then that he speaks up. Four little words that damn him.

"It wasn't her fault."

_No._

"What did you just say?" Hollis asks slowly. "What was that?"

There's a pause, then his calm, measured voice comes in once more.

"I said, 'It wasn't her fault,' Mom."

My heart sinks. Oh, Peeta! I told him not to defend me, not to be –

The next thing I hear are a series of sickening thumps as Hollis takes out her anger on her son. The blows seem to go on forever. I don't know what she's using to hit him, but when it's over, he groans.

That's how I know it was a bad beating. Peeta never makes a sound unless it's really bad.

* * *

"Oh, Kat," Darrow whispers later that night, taking in my bruised face. He's abandoned a cold plate of dinner beside my bed, not realizing until he'd brought it that there was no way I'd be able to eat tonight. "Why did you do it? Why couldn't you just stay out of trouble?"

He's not chastising me. He's fighting back tears.

I open my mouth to apologize, but my throat is raw and nothing comes out.

Darrow gently peels me out of my damp clothes - taking extra care around my injured back - then dresses me in dry pajamas. It's just like I'm eight years old all over again, broken and soaked from my encounter with Hollis in a rainy back alley. Will my life ever stop playing on repeat like this? Will it ever be better?

I slump against Darrow's shoulder. The only sign of my distress is the few silent tears that roll down my bruised cheeks. It would hurt too much to actually sob.

"Swallow," he instructs, placing a pill in my mouth and tilting a glass of water towards my lips. It must've cost him a fortune to get his hands on real, Capitol-type medicine. "Oh, Kat," Darrow keeps repeating in a sad whisper. "My Katniss."

He stays and holds my hand until the pain medication kicks in and I float away.


	7. Chapter 6: Scars

**Chapter 6: Scars**

The pill Darrow gave me must've been strong because it's well into afternoon the next day when I finally wake up.

Nobody else is home and the stillness of the house is a welcome relief. Even so, I make my way up to the bathroom silently, carefully avoiding the stairs that I know will creak underfoot. I've mapped out all the noisy spots over the years. Nowadays, moving stealthily through the Mellark house like a huntress in the woods has become second nature to me.

I check out my reflection in the bathroom mirror and take inventory of my new injuries. There's the split lip, which I was expecting. My cheeks are stamped with dark bruises that make me look eerily gaunt. But at least my eye isn't completely blackened; it's just puffy, with a burst blood vessel streaking the white. That's a relief. The last time I had a black eye it took a month to heal.

I gingerly lift my hair to find fingernail gouges and finger-shaped bruises along the side of my neck from where Hollis held me under the water. Those are my own fault for not going limp sooner - struggling only makes the bruising worse. I should know better by now. No wonder I can barely turn my head today.

It's in the process of moving my hair away my neck that I notice how beat-up my hands are. One bruise wraps around my thumb in an oddly distinct line, turning from purple to black. I must've pulled or torn something trying to defend myself. But that injury is more ugly than painful, really. What hurts most is my breastbone, right where I was slammed down against the edge of the sink. Yet when I pull my pajama top down to inspect the damage, there's only a small reddish mark below my collar. Hardly anything visible at all.

Some injuries are strange like that. They only hurt on the inside.

I study my bruised reflection one last time. I don't even try to smile - I don't like how my mouth curves upward on command but my eyes remain lifeless. It scares me.

I will never be pretty, ever. Not like Aspen. She's cheerful and beautiful and_ normal_. Hollis is right; she is the kind of girl that Peeta should be with. Part of me keeps waiting for the day when he will wake up and finally realize what everybody else already knows – that there's nothing lovable about me. I'm permanently damaged. I deserve to be alone.

_You're disgusting_, I tell the girl in the mirror. She blinks, unresponsive.

All the words Hollis has used to describe me are etched into my mind. Scars, just like the ones covering my body.

_No one wants you. Ugly, worthless, stupid Seam trash._

* * *

I sleepwalk through the next few days, confined to the house until the bruises on my cheeks fade just enough so that people won't ask questions. I wonder about Peeta's injuries, but between going to school and working in the bakery, he's barely home. I take that as a good sign. He must not be too badly hurt.

I spend ninety percent of my time just lying on my mattress in the dark cellar. The hours pass by quickly. When Hollis is home she simply locks the door and ignores me. I don't care. It's the closest she comes to being nice. But when Darrow is home he tries to coax me out of the cellar with offers of pretty things.

"Katniss, come have a cinnamon bun. They're fresh from this morning," he says. Later it's hot apple cider or a card game. Another time, it's "Kat, I've run a warm bath for you. Come on upstairs, Pumpkin. It'll make you feel better."

But the biggest favor I can do for Darrow is the same that I can do for Peeta and for myself - keep my distance. So I stay facedown on my mattress and reject all his gentle offers with stony silence. I tell myself it's best for all of us.

I only cry when he finally gives up.

* * *

The cellar has always been cold and rather damp, but one morning the chill seems to bite right into my bones. I develop a wet, barking cough that echoes in my chest and makes the spot between my breasts ache. Sometimes I cough so hard that I gag, and it's especially difficult to breathe at night.

Hollis complains that my coughing can be heard all the way up on the second floor. I try to muffle the sound using my blanket, but she still says that I'm disturbing her sleep and even accuses me of doing it on purpose just to frustrate her.

Darrow suggests moving my bed upstairs to a warmer spot just until I get better, but his wife has a minor meltdown at the sheer idea of my diseased body being even closer to her. Then he offers up the idea of cough syrup, but she refuses that suggestion as well, claiming that the medicine would be too expensive. Finally, after another restless night, Darrow resorts to tea with honey. Hollis finally concedes.

"But I'm not bringing it down to you, if that's what you were expecting," she snaps down at me from the cellar doorway. "Get up here and make it yourself."

I climb the stairs as quickly as my lungs will let me, which is not very quickly at all. I sit down at the table and Hollis carelessly slides a steaming mug of water in front of me, to which I add some twice-used tea leaves and a spoonful of honey. I wrap my fingers around it. It's so hot that it burns, but I don't care - at least it's not cold.

Just then, Peeta comes through the back door with his book bag slung over one shoulder, even though it's well after dinnertime and school was over hours ago.

"How was dinner with the Anscombs?" Hollis asks, bubbling with delight. "What did they serve? Did they like the rosemary-thyme loaf that we sent over? When are you bringing that darling girl over here again?"

Peeta doesn't acknowledge his mother, but he does stare coldly at me. It's the first time we've seen each other in days. We always act distant and disinterested in each other in front of Hollis - we've learned that any display of closeness between us sets her off in the worst way – but this hostility is new. Perhaps I'm just imagining things from being sick and hungry, or maybe the kitchen light is just so bright that it's playing tricks on my eyes, but I swear that he seems almost… _disgusted_ when he looks at me.

Maybe he's finally realized that taking a beating just to defend me isn't worth it. Maybe he's finally given up on me.

_No one wants you. Ugly, worthless, stupid Seam trash._

"Here," Peeta says curtly, ignoring Hollis' questions and dropping a textbook on the kitchen table in front of me. It lands with a heavy thump and jars the mug in my hands. Some of the hot liquid spills over the side and I wince. Peeta doesn't even flinch. "History. Pages 88 to 112. Ms. Lund says you're already behind, so you'd better do it. And don't make me carry your books again," he finishes, turning away and stomping up the stairs.

I stare down into the steaming liquid in my cup. Is Peeta really mad at me? He's never talked to me like that before.

"I hope you're happy with yourself," Hollis murmurs, noticing our tense exchange. She makes herself her own fresh cup of tea and - smiling over the rim of her mug - decides to take a seat across from me.

I don't stay to finish, and for once she doesn't accuse me of wasting food. Clearly pleased, Hollis actually lets me return to the cellar without uttering a single complaint.

* * *

"110 to 132," is all that Peeta says to me the next day, dropping another textbook on the top step of the cellar before walking away. I have to crawl up the stairs to get it.

* * *

"21 to 36."

* * *

"45 to 49, and the appendices. You're really behind, you know. Ms. Lund is going to think that I didn't tell you about the reading and then she'll get mad at us both."

Peeta rubs his eyes, obviously annoyed. Hollis smiles and says nothing. I fight back tears.

* * *

I lie on my mattress, wheezing. I can't remember the last time I ate the food Darrow brought down me. My tongue feels heavy. I'm not really trying to die, but I'm not really trying to stay alive anymore, either.

* * *

In the middle of the night, Darrow throws open the cellar door and turns on the light. The suddenness of it all makes me think that I must be in trouble, but before I can figure out what I've done wrong, he's at my side.

"Sit up," he says urgently. The bright light makes me squint, but I can see that he's holding a paper bag. He pulls out a small bottle filled with a brownish liquid and pours some into a spoon. It's the medicine that Hollis didn't want him to buy. He actually went out to get it in the middle of the night.

"Swallow," he commands as he brings the spoon to my mouth, just like he did the night with the pill. "It's for pneumonia."

The liquid is a bitter herbal concoction that burns going down, but for the first time in what seems like forever, I'm actually able to breathe comfortably.

* * *

"Kat?" Darrow calls softly, waking me up. He rouses me each morning and then again at night to eat and take some more medicine, and with his steady care I'm actually starting to feel better. If Hollis knows about the medicine, she doesn't say a word. She's far too distracted by Peeta's increasingly serious relationship with Aspen, anyways. I've overheard her dropping hints about an _engagement _after graduation.

But when I open my eyes, I find that it's not Darrow calling me at all. It's Peeta. Beside my mattress is a plate with a piece of toast that Darrow must've given to him to bring down to the cellar for my breakfast. But Peeta's standing there above me, rifling through my textbooks instead.

"Didn't you even open the books?" he asks. But he doesn't sound half as upset as he did last time. Just weary.

"Get away from me," I manage to spit, masking my oncoming tears with anger. Peeta hasn't said a kind thing to me in over a week, and he's spent all his free time with his girlfriend.

Good for him.

_No one wants you. Ugly, worthless, stupid Seam trash._

I can reconcile myself to the fact that Peeta no longer cares about me and even be happy for him, in a way. It's so much safer for us both. But I don't understand why he's come down to the cellar and woken me up just to torment me about my unfinished homework.

"Just leave me alone," I choke, covering my face with my hands. I can't see what he's doing, but I hear him shift and clear his throat. A long time seems to pass before he softly places the textbooks on the mattress, next to my feet.

"Kat," he says gently. I don't answer. "I'm sorry," he finally whispers. "I really didn't mean to make you cry. I'm so sorry. Just open them, open the books."

"Get out," is all I manage to choke. Peeta tries to touch my hair, but I bat his fingers away. "Don't touch me!"

"Peet, we have to get going," Darrow calls from the kitchen above.

"Just a minute," Peeta replies, then drops his voice to a whisper again. "Kat, I'm sorry... please, please don't cry."

I can tell from how his voice tightens that he's trying not to cry now, too, but he's such a good liar that I don't know which is the real Peeta anymore – the gentle one who's talking to me right now, or the one who looks at me with such hatred in his eyes?

"Peet? Everything alright?" I hear Darrow call from the kitchen above.

"Yeah, dad," he answers. He tries to touch me once again, but I slap his hand away and then immediately recoil, instinctively expecting to be hit in return.

He looks devastated.

Without another word, he turns and trudges up the stairs. I hear him softly say something to his father, followed by the sound of the back door closing as the two of them head off to the bakery for the morning shift.

Frustrated and heartbroken, I kick the textbooks off the mattress and let them flop onto their spines in a flutter of pages. I'm about to roll over and ignore the whole mess when I notice that something has dropped out of my history textbook. I wipe my eyes and sit up to see what it is.

It's a dandelion.

At first I think it's some sort of trick, but when I scramble through the rest of pages of the book, more and more flattened blooms fall out. The yellow flowers cover my lap and then begin to pile up on the floor as I turn page after page.

I open the next book, and then the next. Tucked between the pages of each chapter that Peeta had said were assigned for homework I find more and more pressed dandelions. There are more than I can hold in both hands.

That's when it dawns on me. Peeta hasn't been spending his afternoons at Aspen's house - he's been in our meadow until sundown each day, picking flowers for me and hiding them inside my textbooks, where Hollis won't find them.

That's why he wanted me to open them so badly.

It's this realization that finally makes my tears spill over.

* * *

When Peeta returns home from the bakery later that day, he heads straight for the shower.

Risking severe punishment if I get caught, I sneak upstairs and slip into the steam-filled bathroom, stripping the clothes from my body and leaving them in a pile on the floor. He doesn't startle when I softly pull the curtain aside and step into the tub behind him. He just turns to face me, red-eyed from crying.

There are marks on his shoulder, arm and back from his last beating. Some of them are quite bad. He doesn't try to hide them from me now, and I don't attempt to conceal mine, either. We just stand there, naked and vulnerable in front of one another.

"I love you," I finally mouth, barely a whisper over the spray of the water. It's only when I step forward and wrap my arms around his waist that I realize he's trembling.

Peeta presses his face into my wet hair and eventually encircles me with his own arms. His fingers graze one of the scars on my back. I place a light kiss on the bruise on his shoulder.

We don't passionately press each other up against the shower wall. Our bodies are both too broken for that.

We just stand under the water together, holding each other close.


	8. Chapter 7: Beautiful

**Chapter 7: Beautiful**

So long as Peeta continues to come home from school acting as if he's in love with Aspen and could care less about me, Hollis remains at ease. She's not kind to me - I know that she dislikes me and probably always will - it's just that her hatred only simmers instead of erupting into a full-blown outburst if she believes that her youngest son is safely out of my reach.

So Peeta continues to act cold in order to spare me the worst of her anger.

Hollis seems smugly satisfied, and the last of my bruises fade away with no new ones to take their place. Things are even civil between us for a little while. But the very tactic that saves me utterly destroys Peeta. He won't forgive himself for being unkind to me, even though it's all pretend. And I feel so guilty for putting him in that position that I can't help but hold him in my arms when he breaks down.

How could I not?

"It's okay. It's better this way," I reassure him when we manage to steal a few moments together, hidden in our old spot – a small grove of trees near the edge of the meadow. I cup his face between my hands, wiping at his tears with my sleeve.

"It's not okay! I made you cry," he says bitterly, still angry with himself over the hidden dandelions. His hands rest loosely on my hips, as though he doesn't think he deserves to hold me any tighter.

"It's alright, Peet. You didn't mean to," I reassure him. "And I know now that it's just an act. Besides… I'd rather _you_ be mean to me than her."

At least when Peeta acts cruel I know it's not real.

"But it shouldn't have to be anyone!" he protests. "It's wrong-"

"I know," I soothe him. Peeta has such high ideals, but I can't afford to think that way. "I know. But we agreed that it's safer this way for both of us, remember?"

Peeta eventually nods, but he still looks pained. It kills him that he has to compromise his character in order to protect me.

I can't stand his haunted look or the guilt that blooms inside of me knowing that I'm the one who's causing it, so I kiss him to try to make it go away; soft, little presses of my lips that trail up his tense neck and deepen when they reach his mouth. Once he begins to return my kisses in earnest, his shoulders noticeably relax.

Good.

We slide down against the base of a tree, concealed from view, and I straddle his lap. My hands fumble with zippers and buttons, trying to find a shortcut to his warm skin. I need him.

Peeta's hands glide over my shoulders and sift through my hair, making me shiver. He mumbles something unintelligible and then shoves my skirt up my thighs. His fingers find the edge of my underwear and he pulls the fabric aside. I kiss him again, but he hesitates.

"Kat," he starts.

"Shh," I whisper, rising up on my knees and taking him in my hand to guide our bodies together. I really don't want to talk anymore. I just want to feel good and to make him feel good, too. We have so few chances to actually escape.

"I just don't want to become like her," he says forlornly, his voice sounding so small.

Peeta had been my anchor when I felt I had been cast adrift in the world, steadily holding my hand in the days and weeks after my parents and Prim had died. He was the one who shared his bed with me, who wrapped me up in his embrace at night as his mother and father screamed at each other in the kitchen below, and who tried to protect me from my nightmares even as he lived through nightmares of his own. We were just children, desperate for love, but Peeta had always tried to keep me safe.

He's still trying.

Now I'm big enough to keep him safe, too.

"You'll never be like her," I reassure him, just as I begin to lower myself down onto his length and take him into my body. "You won't. You aren't."

When our thighs touch and he's buried deep inside me, Peeta's eyes lock on mine and the distracted, distressed expression he's been wearing finally disappears. He grabs me tightly around the waist, pulling back minutely and driving upwards. We both gasp at the same time.

It doesn't take long. With my legs spread this wide across his lap, every slap of skin against skin as he rhythmically draws our bodies together brings me embarrassingly close to screaming. I grab on to the back of his neck and roll my hips against him, taking control, intent on making him come first. Peeta chokes back a moan, then cups my face between his palms and kisses me softly, keeping his eyes open to take in my reactions. He keeps watching me, soft-eyed and open-mouthed, right up until the moment when he can't take it anymore. That's when he squeezes his eyes shut and grits his teeth, his head lolling against the rough bark of the tree trunk at his back. His hands find my hips once more and dig into my skin as he comes.

"Katniss," he groans as he finishes, which catches me by surprise. Most of the times that we've done this it's been in his bed, where we've had to be as quiet and controlled as possible in order to make sure that we wouldn't be caught. But hearing him say my name like that, in that voice, shot through with pleasure... it causes something in me to snap. I loose control of my quivering thighs and slump against his chest, lips parted and gasping in ecstasy. The intensity of it slices right through me, radiating outward to each fingernail, each strand of hair. Afterwards my hips keep twitching involuntarily, and along with the warm wetness now cupped between us I find myself peaking again, just like that. Before I black out – only briefly – I feel Peeta's arms lock around my waist. I lose control and just as he takes over.

When I open my eyes, he's somehow on top of me and we're behind the honeysuckle bushes. It takes us a minute or two to catch our breath.

"Well. That was the best one yet," he grins, kissing me lightly.

"Peeta," is the only word I manage to form, but I weakly return his smile. My whole body is trembling. I don't think I could stand if I wanted to. So we stay like that, clinging to each other until he softens and slips out of me.

"I love you," he says afterwards, combing the grass and leaves from my hair with his fingers. "Do you still believe me?"

I reach out for him.

"Always."

* * *

It's the start of a dangerous pattern. Peeta and I both know that we're playing with fire and that we need to start keeping our distance from one another, but we're each other's only comfort. No one else quite understands what goes on behind closed doors in the Mellark household.

The first thing he does the next time we're in the meadow together is peel off my pants, slide his hands up my legs and bury his face between my thighs. He's all gentle sucking lips and firm strokes with the flat of his tongue. It drives me so crazy that he has to hook his arms around my thighs to hold me down.

"You're red," he murmurs, pausing to spread me open to the cool air and his own curious gaze. "And wet."

"Peeta," I whine impatiently, squirming beneath him. "Keep going."

He laughs softly and returns what he was doing with his mouth until I shudder beneath him and grab at the back of his head, moaning as I come. Afterwards, he practically jumps up to shuck off his pants and shorts, then positions himself between my legs and sinks into me in one smooth motion. He releases a satisfied moan as I continue to spasm around him from my first climax.

"Peet?" I ask breathlessly when he leans in to kiss my neck. There's something on my mind that has been nagging at me with each of his deep thrusts, and I'm unable to contain it any longer.

"Mmmff," he pants into my hair. His breath is hot and damp against my skin. "Yeah?"

"Do you do this with Aspen?" I blurt out. He stills above me, and then his shoulders slump a little. Our chests are pressed together and I can actually feel his heart racing. It's a stupid time to ask, I know, but I can't resist. I'm jealous, and I want to know if he makes her feel this good, too.

Peeta doesn't patronize me. He removes his head from where it's buried at the curve of my neck and looks me in the eye.

"We've done some stuff," he admits quietly, "but not this."

I probably should feel mad but, surprisingly, I don't. Instead, this information galvanizes me. I'm flooded with possessiveness. I want all of Peeta, all of him, every drop, and I don't want to leave any of him for Aspen.

"Do you want me to stop?" he asks.

I shake my head. I wish I could tell him that I love him and only him, that I only ever feel safe and beautiful in his arms, and that he's the antithesis of Hollis, wracking my body with pleasure instead of pain. I want to tell him things that seem dirty – that I actually like it when he comes in my mouth, when he groans my name into my hair, when he holds my legs apart and fucks me – but neither sweet nor sexy words come easily to me.

"More," is all I manage to whimper, wrapping my legs around him and lifting my hips in response to his question. "Please. More."

Thankfully, words do come easily to Peeta. "I love you, Katniss," he says sincerely, setting a slow rhythm and punctuating his words with little kisses. "Only you. And one day," kiss, "we'll have a house of our own," kiss, "and a bed," kiss, "and I'll make love to you and only you, whenever you want it."

I sigh and smile lazily at the picture Peeta paints with his words. I'm draping my arms over his broad shoulders when a snapping noise suddenly grabs my attention. Peeta hears it too. We both freeze and turn our heads to the side in one curiously coordinated motion.

My blood runs cold. I have no idea how she found us, but she did.

It's Aspen.

She's standing a few feet away, staring at the scene before her in shock. Her pink lips are parted in a stunned little 'O'.

"Shit," Peeta mutters. We scramble apart in a tangle of naked limbs and wrinkled clothing.

"Peet?" she squeaks, shaking her honey-blonde head in confusion. Her chest is heaving, but not out of anger. It seems like she can't decide if she's going to laugh or cry. "Why are you… what's going on?" she chokes. "What are you doing?"

Neither Peeta nor I respond.

"Katniss is, like…" Aspen continues, then she claps one hand over her mouth as her tears spill over. She giggles uncomfortably and begins to back away. "This is... this is so disgusting. This is sick. She's practically your _sister,_ Peeta."

And then she's gone.


	9. Chapter 8: Painted Flowers

_A/n: This is the hardest chapter psychologically, by far. __I promise things will start to get better soon._

_**Trigger warning:** minor character suicide and reference to illegal abortion. _

**Chapter 8: Painted Flowers**

"I have to talk to her," Peeta huffs as he tucks in his shirt. "I have to make sure that she doesn't say anything."

His cheeks are still flushed from our activities. The way he's hurrying to catch up with Aspen so soon after we've just been together bothers me, even though I know I'm being ridiculous. I just sit there, staring down at my bare knees. I tug the hem of my shirt a little lower.

"Katniss," Peeta interrupts my thoughts, gripping my shoulders to get my attention. "Come on. Get up, get dressed. Go home and make up a good excuse about why you're late. If Mom asks about me, just say that you didn't see where I went, okay?" I nod stiffly and a second later he jogs off, leaving me half-naked in the grass. I feel oddly rejected by the suddenness of it all.

I dress slowly and mechanically and try to think up plausible excuses as I make my way home.

_I had detention. _

_I went to a friend's house._

_I forgot a book and had to go back to school._

In the end, I decide to risk getting slapped by just saying that I'd been loitering around the Hob. It's the most believable explanation. After all, I _would _screw up like that. If I'm lucky, maybe Hollis won't even be home and I won't need to use an excuse at all.

However, as soon as I enter the kitchen it becomes evident that no lie in the world is going to help me. That's because there are two steaming cups of tea sitting on the kitchen table. Hollis is glaring at me over one of them. The other is clutched between Aspen's pretty painted fingernails.

I stop dead in my tracks.

Hollis doesn't even say anything. She rises almost serenely, taps her stocky, red fingers briefly on the tabletop then glides towards me until she's about an inch from my face. I remain perfectly still, hoping that Aspen hasn't said too much yet and that I can still bluff my way out of this.

"Do you have anything to say for yourself?" Hollis asks in a low, venomous voice.

My heart sinks. _She knows_. It doesn't matter how much she knows; she knows enough, and she's going to make me pay for it.

I open my mouth, but I'm cut off by a wicked slap to the face that sends me staggering. Regaining my balance, I catch a glimpse of Aspen's expression. Though I'm certain she despises me, there's not an ounce of enjoyment on her face. In fact, she looks horrified. I guess the Mellarks aren't shaping up to be the perfect family she thought they were.

_You haven't seen anything yet,_ I think to myself. But Hollis grabs me roughly by the arm and shoves me towards the cellar, saving her best moments for later when company isn't around.

"Get in the- go to your room. Get in," she hisses, shoving me through the door. I don't resist, but she still pushes me hard enough that I stumble and can't get my footing. I skid down the first few steps on my knees, catching the railing so I don't tumble all the way down the stairs.

"Ah!" I gasp, feeling a hot trickle of blood start down one shin. But before I can inspect the damage, the door slams shut and I'm plunged into darkness.

After my ears stop ringing, I hear Aspen's nervous voice coming through from the other side of the door. "I really have to go," she stammers.

"No, no darling, stay and drink your tea! Calm down now. Here's a tissue. Peeta will be home soon and we'll get this all sorted out," Hollis soothes her. "We'll make it all better."

Oh, god. Peeta. _Don't come home_, I think. _Run away._

"No! No, I don't want- I really didn't mean to cause- I have to go," Aspen stutters. She's clearly terrified of Hollis. I know the feeling well, except her reaction only serves to highlight how unusual mine is. I'm sitting here bleeding, waiting to be beaten, and I'm not even crying. Aspen has only witnessed one slap and she's losing it.

In an unexpected moment of clarity, I suddenly see just how abnormal my living situation is. Not having friends to compare myself to, it's sometimes hard for me to tell.

Hollis tries to persuade Aspen to stay and even bribes her with a cupcake, but the hapless girl starts to weep and keeps insisting that she has to go home. Finally, Hollis walks her to the door and I know my time has come. I hobble down the rest of the stairs and feel around the edge of the mattress, searching in the darkness until my hand closes around what I'm looking for.

A limp, withered dandelion. I'd saved it. To hold onto at times like this.

A second later, the light flashes on. Hollis unlocks the door, throws it open, and pounds her way down the stairs. My adrenaline spikes at the sound of her heavy tread, each step associated with oncoming, unavoidable pain. I instinctively retreat towards the wall, but when I see what's in her hand I know that no degree of curling up or covering my head is going to help me.

I don't know what I was expecting. Maybe the broom, maybe the belt. But not this. In her big, red hands, Hollis holds her expensive marble rolling pin. It's heavy enough that if it rolled off the counter and landed on your foot, it might break your toes.

"You _slut_!" she spits breathlessly. "_You!_"

"No!" I wail, as she approaches, and then I don't stop screaming. My shrieks drown out her insults. All I'm thinking is that if I'm going to die, at least some neighbor should hear it.

"Ma!" I hear someone shout, and then Ry appears, racing down the stairs. I don't know where he came from. "Ma! Stop!"

Hollis' furious gaze seem to hover somewhere just above my head. Even in her rage, she can't stand to look at me. She swings the heavy marble backwards, winding up to strike. I watch it happen in slow motion, all the while feeling curiously detached from my own body. I see my arms go up and brace for the impact, knowing it will be excruciating, but the blow never comes. Ry gets in the way and wrenches the weapon from his mother's hands before it can ever touch me. It falls to the cement floor with a heavy smack and rolls a few feet to the side.

"Stop! You'll kill her! Ma, listen! Stop," he pleads, tugging on his mother's shirt. Ry attempts to turn her around to face him but Hollis shakes him off and comes at me again with those red hands, wrapping her fingers tightly around my neck and slamming my head back against the wall.

"I won't have some _Seam slut_ living in _my house_!" she screams, her saliva spraying my face. She smashes my head into the wall with another sickening thud. I try to yell but it comes out as a gurgling sort of gasp.

Suddenly, Hollis' hands are roughly ripped away from my throat. I slump in the corner and look up to find Ry restraining her arms. He's a wrestler, after all.

No wonder all the Mellark boys took up wrestling.

"Stop it! Stop it!" Ry keeps barking in her ear, years of pent-up guilt and rage pouring out all at once. Tears are coursing down his cheeks. I've never, ever seen him lose it like this.

Before I can make sense of what's happened, I'm scrambling up the cellar stairs on my hands and knees. I hear a heavy slap behind me but I don't stop to figure out what – or who – it was. I run full-speed out the back door of the Mellarks' house, down the alley, past all the other garbage cans and unkempt backyards. I run without caring that it's started to rain, or that I'm gasping, or that my head is pounding, or that my knees are still bleeding and there are fresh fingernail scratches on my neck for anyone to see. I don't even know where I'm going.

I run blindly, without looking back.

* * *

It's Darrow who finds me very early the next morning, shivering and curled up on my side in the mud behind the honeysuckle bushes. I don't remember getting there, but I suppose my feet had been searching for a safe place. Wordlessly, he bends down and pushes a strand of wet hair off my face.

"Are you hurt?" he asks quietly.

I don't answer. How am I supposed to answer that?

Darrow sighs. He slides one arm under my shoulders and the other under my knees and then hauls me up. I don't want to go back to that house, but it's the only place I have. This is the only home I know.

When we get to the door, two peacekeepers intercept us. It's only when Darrow puts me down that I realize I've somehow lost my shoes and I'm barefoot.

"Mellark," one official says. "We need to speak to you regarding your son."

The crumpled dandelion falls from my fist and lands in a puddle. I hadn't even known that I was still clutching it.

* * *

If I had known during that fight that it would be the last time I'd ever get to see Ry, I would've stayed. I would've found some way to thank him for intervening. I would've told him that he was my big brother and I loved him, and I would've told him that none of what had happened over the years – to him, to any of us – was his fault.

I would've tried to stop him.

But I never got a chance to do any of that because Ry hung himself the same night that I ran away. It was Peeta who found his body swinging from an old tree out near the slag heap.

People say that Ry used to be an outgoing kid. Really boisterous. He used to talk all the time. And before I came along and became Hollis' favorite little punching bag, he got in trouble the most out of all the Mellark boys.

I'll never know exactly why he did it. But I have a pretty good guess.

* * *

Families in District 12 are only allotted three days bereavement for the loss of a child, and grain and oil are only awarded in the case of the primary provider's death.

Three days. It's barely enough time to put your kid in the ground.

Darrow Mellark only takes two, because the wealthier residents want their bread and money is tight. So he returns to work right after Ry's funeral, even though it's obvious that he's sick with grief. He goes through the motions of opening the bakery each morning but forgets to place the stock orders on time and walks away from half-finished batches of pastries, leaving the ingredients out to spoil or tempt the rats. After work he takes long walks alone, neglecting to lock the bakery doors or turn off the ovens. He only returns to the house to eat dinner and then retreat to bed.

I don't think any of us really realized how strong Darrow truly was until he wasn't anymore.

Hollis, on the other hand, doesn't get out of bed at all. Sometimes we hear her crying, but we never once see her face. Mat brings trays of food into her bedroom but the plates usually reemerge untouched. He's the only one of us who she can bear to look at.

But it's Peeta who is suffering the most. He hasn't spoken a single word since that morning that he found Ry's body. He isn't just pretending to be cold towards me anymore.

I long to hold him and comfort him, to bring him back to himself, but I feel too guilty to even look him in the eye. After all, I'm the one who was responsible for provoking the fight that ended in Ry's death in the first place.

Losing a sibling is like losing a limb. I lost Prim, so I know what it's like. Now Peeta has lost a part of himself that can never be retrieved.

I wouldn't blame him if he never spoke to me again.

At night, if I can sleep at all, I end up having nightmare after nightmare, just like I did when I was little. Sometimes I awaken to the familiar scent of Peeta's skin as he draws me close and rubs circles on my back. But in the morning I always wake up alone, so I'm never quite sure if I just imagined it or not.

* * *

One day, Hollis emerges from her room as if nothing has happened. Her hair is tied up in a bun and she's dressed in her work clothes. Nothing about her appearance gives away the fact that she's been crying and refusing food for weeks. There are no tears streaking her freshly powdered face, just the usual frown lines. To my utter confusion, she slips right back into her regular routine without any explanation or change to her demeanor whatsoever.

I thought she would be angry with me, but she's not. Maybe she's too exhausted to be upset with me after the loss of her child.

"Come on, Katniss. Get your coat," she says after we've washed and dried the dinner dishes that night. I hesitate, although her tone is calm. I want to ask why and where we're going, but I'm afraid that questions will set her off. So, in an effort to keep the peace, I cooperate.

Once we're outside, she takes me by the arm and sets off at a brisk pace. I struggle to keep up.

"Where- where are we going?" I finally venture. No answer. "Hollis? Are we going somewhere?"

"Shh," she hisses, yanking me closer and lowering her voice. "We are going to visit a doctor."

"For who?" I ask.

No answer.

The place she leads us to isn't a clinic or even a healer's house, but some hole in the wall near the Hob that one needs to go through a maze of alleyways to find. Hollis seems embarrassed to be there and hurries me inside. Once we're crammed into a cold little room with a metal examining table, a man comes in, flipping through some papers attached to a clipboard. I assume he's the doctor, though he's not dressed like one. He tells me to lie down and spread my legs.

I turn to Hollis for some kind of explanation, but she keeps her eyes trained on her shoes.

Frightened to the point of tears, I do as the doctor says. He puts his dirty, knotted fingers inside of me and pushes around on my abdomen, which makes me wince. I feel disgusting. Violated.

"Twelve weeks, give or take," he finally declares, removing his fingers.

Hollis sighs and rubs her forehead.

"It has to be taken care of."

"That'll cost you more," the doctor replies gruffly. I have no idea what they're talking about, but I do notice that Hollis has tears in her eyes.

"Make it happen," she decides. "Do I have to stay in the room?"

"In your case, it's probably not a good idea. But girls usually want their mothers."

"I'm not her mother," Hollis says numbly, standing to leave.

It's only then that the doctor actually puts on a pair of gloves, although they don't look much cleaner than his hands. To my horror, he then pulls out some sort of long stick and begins to sharpen the tip. A shiver runs down my spine at the sound. Whatever Hollis wants him to 'make happen' is apparently going to happen right now.

"What's going on?" I ask, sitting up. "What are you going to do?"

The doctor clears his throat, but doesn't answer my question.

"Hollis?" I ask, desperate, even for her help. She pauses just as she reaches the door but doesn't turn to face me.

"If you could just call for Andra on your way out, then," the doctor tells her, ignoring me as he continues to sharpen the instrument in his hands.

"Wait!" I beg, but Hollis is already out the door.

"You just lie down," the man says, finally acknowledging me. "You're not that far along. This shouldn't take much time at all."

"What are you going to do?"

"Don't you know?" he asks in astonishment, actually looking me in the eye for the first time. I notice that he's chewing a toothpick and his lips are chapped. "No one will take in a young girl who is _in trouble_. Do you want to be living on the streets?"

The streets? _In trouble_?

Just then, his assistant - a nondescript, expressionless woman - walks through the door. Without really looking at me, she guides me to lie flat on my back and restrains my wrists on either side of my head. On the cracked ceiling above is a watercolor painting of flowers. It's an unusual place to hang a picture, and I can't help but think that Peeta paints better.

_Peeta._

Fat tears begin to roll down the sides of my cheeks and into my ears. _Peeta_. Suddenly, I realize what's going on. Twelve weeks. The distracting picture on the ceiling. The sharp stick. Panic boils up in my throat. My period has always been irregular, practically absent. I'm so stupid for not putting the pieces together sooner.

"Wait!" I choke. "Please!"

The doctor spreads my legs once again and I jolt, looking down.

"Wait," I beg. "I said wait!"

I actually try to kick him as he restrains my ankles.

"Andra, if you wouldn't mind" he sighs, his voice thick with irritation. The blank-faced woman pins my wrists above my head with one hand and firmly grabs my chin with the other, so I'm staring straight up at the flowers above.

"Stop!" I sob as the reality of the situation sets in. "I want to go home!"

"That lady who _isn't even your mother_ is doing you a big favor by paying for this procedure, missy," says the doctor impatiently. "Without her, you might not even have a home. So I'd suggest you hold still unless you want this to hurt even more."

"Just look up at all the lovely flowers, dear," says the woman. "See if you can name them."

I search the poorly painted bouquet through my tears as the doctor begins to do something below that makes me spasm and shake. I wail in pain as cramps rip through my abdomen, but his assistant holds my wrists and chin tightly so I can't see what he's doing. At one point I turn my head to the side and throw up into a waiting basin. I keep praying that I will pass out, but my body betrays me and I don't.

"Hold her there while I dispose of it," the doctor finally says when he's done, removing his soiled gloves and picking up a different basin that appears to be filled with my blood. More of it pools on the table between my legs. There's nothing there to soak it up.

"A dandelion," I whimper deliriously, once he's left the room. It's the only flower I can think of.

"No dear," the woman says, casting a confused glance up at the painting. "There's no dandelion in there."


	10. Chapter 9: Girl on Fire

I'm in shock. My whole body is slick with sweat and my legs feel like they're filled with air. Hollis is lifting me under my arms, practically dragging my entire weight through the dark alleys. Every inch of my body groans, mooring me to the earth.

"Walk," she grunts, jerking my body forward. "Now."

I catch a glimpse of damp cobblestones beneath my feet, yellowed by the glow of the street lamps. There's nothing more I want than to lie down right in the middle of the street and feel those cold, glistening stones against my cheek.

"I can't," I protest weakly.

"You have to," Hollis counters. "Walk. Now."

"I can't."

Hollis says something else and tugs my elbow, but I'm going to fly apart into a million little pieces if I don't lie down right this second. My knees buckle.

I don't remember getting home, but it's Peeta who opens the door to us. His whole body is backlit by the kitchen light, turning his blonde hair into a halo.

_Peeta,_ my dry lips form with their last ounce of strength.

"Quick!" Hollis hisses. "Help me get her inside!"

"What happened?" he chokes, just as I collapse on the doorstep.

* * *

That night I dream about something I'd long forgotten.

_"Feel that, Katniss?" my father says, smoothing my tiny fingers over the front of mother's pink and blue apron. The fabric pulls taut between his coal-stained hands and hugs the gentle curve of her belly._

_"Feel that? There's a baby in there."_

Prim.

I wake up screaming, clawing at my own abdomen, desperately trying to protect that little piece of Peeta I'd been carrying inside of me.

* * *

Once the fever takes over, I no longer know what's real and what's not.

I hear rusty scissors snipping and sense something bright, but I can't see anything. A low moan rises from somewhere in the room. Then a big hand squeezes the back of my neck, forcing my head upright.

"Disgusting whore," mutters Hollis, adding new, hateful words to the litany of names she calls me. Her face suddenly comes into focus in front of me, rippling around the edges like a pool of water. She holds up a picture of a girl with a jagged, uneven curtain of black hair falling around her cheeks. Then she shoves the image so close to my face that my vision blurs.

"See this? This is what trash looks like."

The picture moves.

It's not a picture. It's a mirror.

I look down and see clumps of my own freshly shorn hair scattered across my lap.

"Who will want you now?" Hollis asks, almost gently. "Hmm?"

* * *

_"Please! Just for a minute, please!"_ someone cries in my nightmare.

"Get him back upstairs!"

"Mom!" he begs, his voice getting closer. "Mom!"

_"Don't call me that! You are not my son,"_ the woman shrieks. She screams the same words over and over again, until they've lost all meaning.

A loud, terrifying commotion follows. Then a noise filled with pain. Crying, I think.

Peeta whimpering.

Peeta?

Is this a dream?

* * *

My eyelids are glued shut. Someone has glued them shut as a mean joke.

There's a crackling buzz in my ears which I attribute to the waves of pain that are rising from my belly, searing through my insides, lapping at my face and neck and making it hard to breathe.

I must be on fire.

"Help," I cry, but it comes out as a hoarse moan. The darkness is as thick and suffocating as hot smoke and my sweat-soaked clothes are plastered to my body like melted skin.

Are my eyes open?

"Help," I call out again. My mother will come help me. She's a healer. She'll put homemade salves on my burns and pour water down my parched throat. "Mother," I croak. "Mama."

I eventually turn my head to the side and vomit into my own hair.

No one comes.

* * *

I finally wake up after days of dipping in and out of consciousness. The room reeks of stale sweat and my mouth is dry as paper. It takes me a few minutes to figure out that I'm lying on a mattress.

So Hollis didn't leave me to die in the gutter.

I have no idea how long I've been asleep or what time of day it could be; it's pitch black in the cellar. My limbs are heavy and my head throbs, but at least the waves of burning pain have subsided.

"No, you couldn't have just cheated, could you? You're_ too_ charitable, Darrow! Such a good husband! You would never do such a thing!"

Something's happening in the kitchen above, but none of it makes sense. I hear floorboards creaking under feet and voices biting back and forth. And sobbing.

"Other women's husbands might run around with some tramp and make a fool out of them for a night or two, but no! You couldn't cheat! Instead, you had to take in _that_ girl," she spits. "That piece of Seam trash! The daughter of _that woman_, in my house, sitting across from me at my table, reminding me every day that I'm not good enough!"

A dish shatters.

_That woman._ Does she mean my mother?

"Holl-"

"And now she's running around with my son? With god knows how many other boys? That little slut has been living under _my _roof, on _my _charity, and she repays us by ruining our family _and _our good name!" She seems to run out of breath and I hear the thump of her fist on the table. "Do you have any idea how _stupid_ I look to everyone else in town? _Oh, poor Holly Kerr_," she mimics in a sing-song voice. "_Whatever happened to her? She used to be such a lovely girl. _Well, being married off to a man who doesn't love you would make you bitter, too!"

Another dish smashes. More sobbing.

What does she mean? Was Darrow in love with _my_ mother?

I can hear him struggling to form words. I can practically see him digging his fingers into his graying hair, reaching out to his wife, trying to muddle his way through the grief and confusion that have robbed him of his ability to think clearly.

"I don't love you?" he finally chokes out. "Didn't I take your side, all those times you told me to choose between you and her? Didn't I do the whipping?"

"Oh please," Hollis scoffs. Her voice – anguished only seconds ago – takes on a cruel edge. "You'd be down there hand-feeding her right now if I wasn't standing here crying! You_ hate_ me! I'm suffering, and that's the only way I get your attention, Darrow! You hate me, and you let this happen behind my back just to live out some sick, unrequited love fantasy through your son and make me look like an idiot!"

"I swear, I didn't know. I knew she and Peet were close when they were younger, like siblings-"

"Siblings don't _fuck_ _each other!_" Hollis explodes with disgust, and then she actually wails. It's piercing and shrill. "Oh god," she pants afterwards, a fresh round of tears overtaking her. "Oh god, _oh god_."

"Holl, honey, sit down, please-"

"Shut up!" she snaps, but I hear her sit down heavily and continue to moan. Darrow sighs. A long silence follows, unbroken except for Hollis' wet sniffling.

"I'll drop her off at the community home then," he finally says, defeated. "That's what you've always wanted, right?"

"No! We need all the help we can get at the bakery now that…" she trails off.

Now that Ry's dead, she means.

There's another long silence in the kitchen above.

"Is that all you can think about?" I finally hear Darrow ask. "Our son is dead and all you can think about is who will do the work?"

I expect another round of yelling, but all I hear is a chair scraping back, followed by slow footsteps across the kitchen floor.

"You're a cold woman, Hollis."

* * *

I can't even imagine what hope feels like anymore. When I try to remember that kernel of what I once let myself feel in the meadow with Peeta, I only feel sick. I shouldn't have survived the infection. I didn't deserve to survive it. But somehow, pathetically, I did.

The only thing worse than wanting to die is waking up the next morning to discover that the world is still turning, dragging you along with it.

I open my eyes. Hollis is at my side, washing me. Wringing out a soapy cloth from a basin of warm water. Wiping the dried vomit from my face, the remaining blood from my hands and thighs.

"You're going to get up and to school," she says, quiet and resolute. "You're not going to speak of this to anyone. Then you're going to come straight to the bakery and work the afternoon shift." She continues to wash me, never once making eye contact.

I say nothing. Feel nothing.

Hollis helps me dress, then offers me a strong arm and patiently guides me up the stairs, into the bright kitchen. I wince at the pale sunlight that filters through the window. A single bowl of hot grain sits on the table in front of an empty wooden chair. There's no one else at the table and the whole house is silent. Darrow and Mat must already be at the bakery, and Peeta… where's Peeta?

I lift my hand to my cropped hair and feel its uneven edges. My long braid is gone.

So that _was_ real.

It makes me wonder what else was real.

"Where's Peeta?" I ask hoarsely.

Hollis just rinses a pot in the sink and acts like she hasn't heard me.

"Where is Peeta?" I repeat, louder. A pain starts up in my gut when she doesn't answer.

Panicked, I stumble towards the stairs. Hollis makes no move to stop me, which is what really worries me. That means that there's something up there she wants me to see. I heave my weakened body up to the second floor, leaning heavily against the wall to keep my balance. I find the door of the boys' room slightly ajar and easily push it open.

My heart sinks at what I find.

_No. _

The blind is closed, shrouding the bedroom in darkness, but I can still make out the shape of his broken body. I can hear his labored breathing, the gurgle of blood in his throat. I can see the side of his face that's bruised beyond recognition. One of his eyes is swollen completely shut.

A scream starts up in my throat, but it gets lodged halfway and I choke.

I look down at Peeta's limp, scratched hands – the ones that have loved me and held me and have never once hurt me – and I go numb. How could Hollis do this to him? And why is no one taking care of him?

I remember Hollis screaming, _"You are not my son!" _

In some twisted way, she sees me as the other woman. The one breaking up her family.

All I can think of as I take inventory of Peeta's injuries is that each bruise is my fault.

_This is all my fault._

* * *

I know that the kids at school are giving me funny looks because of my hair. I hear their whispers and disbelieving giggles as I pass, but I don't have the energy to care. I just keep my eyes down and block them out.

I feel nothing. I am nothing.

The only time I look up is when someone actually touches my shoulder and says my name.

"Katniss."

It's Aspen, but she doesn't seem angry. She looks confused, maybe even a little sad. Her eyes study me for a few seconds and then her mouth opens, but before she can speak I dart past her and into the bathroom.

There's nothing for us to say to each other, anyway.

I head straight to the sink, turn on the tap and shove my shaking hands under the cold stream of water. I didn't even bother looking around to see who else was in the bathroom when I entered, so it takes me by surprise when I hear Serafine's voice.

"Hey Katniss. I'm really sorry to hear about your brother."

She's standing near the other sinks with her group of friends. None of them are smiling. They seem serious, but I'm still waiting for some kind of punchline.

When it doesn't come, I finally croak out, "Thanks."

"Yeah. Ryland was a good guy," one of the other girls says quietly. "My brother was in his class."

"Yeah," I answer. He really was a good person. They don't know the half of it.

Then Serafine asks, "So, was he as _good _as Peeta?" and the whole group of girls burst into giggles.

My blood runs cold and my heart feels like it's about to pound out of my chest, but I just train my eyes downward, staring at my hands in the sink. Maybe this is just another nightmare and I'll wake up soon.

_Not real?_

The girls' laughter echoes through the tiled bathroom, ringing painfully in my ears. Then one of them – I don't know which one – scoops up a handful of water and dumps it down the front of my skirt. I jump back.

"Look, her water broke!" she squeals. The group howls with laughter.

_You're not far along. This shouldn't take much time at all_, says the doctor with the dirty fingers.

I clutch my stomach and look down expecting to find blood, but there's only water dripping down my legs.

"Katniss has a _bun_ in the oven!" someone shrieks, and the girls renew their peals of laughter.

_Wait, _I scream. _Wait! _I see the long needle, the painted flowers on the ceiling. _Dandelions._ Peeta's bruised face. My mother's round belly. A hot wave of pain and grief engulfs me, squeezing my heart. I can't breathe. I can't take it.

_Just look up at all the lovely colors, dear._

Someone cups another icy handful of water and throws it in my face. I gasp and stumble backwards, bumping into the wall.

_Worthless Seam trash! Pathetic, stupid, ugly thing! _shouts Hollis.

The girls' laughter suffocates me, just like Hollis holding me underwater. I'm drowning. I'm drowning!

_Run_, my brain screams.

Stiff-kneed, I manage to slip through the puddle that's formed around my shoes and lock myself in the corner toilet stall. I pinch my eyes shut against the girls' ringing laughter and curl up with my feet on the toilet seat, making my form as small as possible. I have to cram my sleeves into my mouth to keep from screaming.

"Whatever. Let's go," someone eventually says. The laughter dies down as they file out of the bathroom, leaving me alone and shaking.

But the shaking won't stop. My heart isn't slowing down. My gasps turn into uncontrollable sobs. I press my palms to my face and will myself to calm down, but I can't. It's getting worse. I need to get out of here.

I tear out of the stall, wrench open the bathroom window and wriggle sideways through the opening, falling into the thorny bushes a few feet below. My legs get scraped up and my sweater snags, but I don't care.

I run.

I keep running. I run to the meadow. I fall on my face behind the honeysuckle bushes and scream into the dirt. I tear out handfuls of grass and dig my heels and elbows into the soft earth, doing more damage to myself than anything else.

Eventually, I pick myself up. The sight of dandelions makes me sick, but I grab the handful that I came for. Then I run home. Straight up to Peeta's room.

This can't go on anymore. We can't keep pretending. It's not going to work.

"Peeta," I say, shaking him awake. His non-swollen eye opens slowly.

"Kat-niss," he gasps, like my name is two words. It's then that I realize his jaw might be broken, too. "Kat-niss."

"I'm running away," I tell him. "I don't know where to, but I'm running away."

"I'm co-ming with you," he says with some effort. He tries to sit up.

"No."

"I'm co-ming wi-"

I put my hand on his shoulder and shove him back down onto the mattress. He groans in pain.

_Forgive me, Peeta._

"You're not coming with me. And I don't want you to come after me either. Understand?"

Peeta looks at me sideways through his half-open good eye.

"Why?"

"I want you to stay away from me. Forever."

His good eye starts to water. Oh god. I can't stand it when Peeta cries.

"Don't cry!" I scream at him. "Don't cry! Don't follow me! Don't look for me! Just stay the hell away from me!"

"Kat-niss," he chokes. "I love you." He struggles with each word.

"Well, don't bother," I spit. "Because I don't love you."

A tear streaks down his face. "Stop," he breathes. "Stop."

"I don't love you. I don't love you. I don't love you," I say, over and over again, throwing the words like punches. And the more I say it, the angrier I really get. "I don't love you!" I hit him in the chest and he moans. I instantly regret that, but the hateful words keep pouring out. "I don't love you, don't you get it? I _hate _you, Peeta! I hate you for what you've done to me!"

It's not true in the least – god, it's not true – but this is the only way…

"Don't go," he whimpers when I stand up, and he puts his hand over my belly. "I'm sor-ry."

I slap it away.

"Don't touch me! Leave me alone! Do you understand? Don't come after me, because I don't love you anymore! I want _nothing _to do with you," I spit.

He looks confused. Hurt. His dry lips open, but no sound comes out.

_Oh, Peeta. You're breaking my heart._

I glare at him to emphasize my words. And then, to seal the deal, I take the crushed handful of dandelions and throw them in his face. He winces as the yellow blooms scatter across his pillow.

"Kat-niss?" his voice wobbles when his eyes open again. His good eye spills over with tears and he suddenly grabs my hand with strength I didn't know he possessed. "Stay!"

"I hate you, Peeta Mellark," I repeat, looking away. "And I never want to see you again."

Then I twist my fingers free from his bruised hand and run from the room.

"Kat-niss!" I hear him wail.

But I don't look back. I can't let him see me cry.


	11. Chapter 10: Escape

**Chapter 10: Escape**

This is for the best, I tell myself.

After leaving Peeta, I immediately fled the Mellark residence, not even stopping to grab my little bundle of threadbare clothes.

I won't need them anymore anyways.

I scrub the back of my hand across my swollen eyes and put on my best defensive scowl, but my vision is blurred by tears again a few seconds later. I can't stop seeing the hurt expression that came across Peeta's face when I told him I didn't love him. I can't stop hearing him wail my name as I ran away from him. My heart feels like a fist, squeezing tight with unfathomable pain, threatening to punch right through my ribs.

_But I had to do it to save him_, I remind myself. To save him from the violent anger that I provoke from Hollis; from the worst of her abuse, intended for me but which Peeta takes upon himself. To save him from a fate like Ry's, or worse.

I won't be the cause of Peeta's death. I won't. Even if it means that I have to do the unthinkable and leave him.

My only hope is that now that I'm gone, Hollis won't have reason to feel betrayed by him anymore. Then she'll start calling him her son again and finally get him the medical attention his broken body so desperately needs.

I eventually give up altogether on trying to see through my tears. Instead, I rely on my sense of hearing to lead me where I need to go – towards the train tracks.

_This is for the best,_ I keep having to tell myself. _This is for Peeta._

* * *

Peeta and I were inseparable friends right from the start, right from the day his father plucked me up out of the mud.

"There we are. You'll be good as new in no time," Darrow had said after setting my broken arm and bandaging it up in a makeshift sling. He stood back to admire his handiwork and then lifted me down from the floury countertop.

For a moment I wobbled on my legs like a newborn colt. I was still just a starving, scared eight-year-old, hurt and all alone.

Then a warm, crumby hand slid into mine, steadying me.

"You're Katniss," solemnly declared its owner. "I'm Peeta. We're in the same class at school."

I only nodded mutely, taken aback by how easily this strange boy had just picked up my hand. No one outside my family had ever held my hand before.

Then he produced a blackberry muffin.

"Want to share it?"

We crouched together in the warm, dusty spot behind the ovens that rainy afternoon, splitting apart our snack and staining our fingers purple with its juices. The sweet pastry warmed and filled my hungry stomach, but it was Peeta, himself, who warmed and filled the other emptiness inside of me. As soon as I'd licked the last crumb from my palm, I automatically reached out for his hand again. Once more, his warm fingers closed reassuringly around mine.

And that's how we stayed.

At first, I was only supposed to live with the Mellarks for a few days, just until Darrow was able to locate some living relative of mine to take me in. But there were none, so days turned into weeks, which turned into months, which turned into years. During that time, Mat and Ry grew up into teenagers and started moving on to their own activities. But Peeta and I never left each other. If anything, we grew even closer.

Meanwhile, Hollis – never having been happy about the orphaned _Seam brat_ that somehow ended up living under her roof – grew more and more hostile towards me.

Peeta naturally took on the role of being my brother and protector. He would hold me and soothe me when I woke up crying from nightmares. He would curl his body like a shield around mine when the bruises Hollis' fists had stamped onto my small frame made it impossible for me to sleep at all.

I, in turn, took care of him.

One day, while trying to show his brothers strong he was, Peeta picked up a large tray of fresh bread from the counter without realizing that it had just been pulled from the oven. The hot metal burned into both of his hands, causing him to send the whole thing clattering to the floor. Several loaves were so badly damaged that they couldn't be salvaged.

When Hollis came over to see what all the commotion was about, she didn't even look twice at her son's swollen, red hands. She just slapped him across the eye and called him a _stupid creature_, then ordered him to feed the ruined bread to the pig out back.

I was the one who lead him to the meadow afterwards. There, I picked a fistful of _elder vera_ – a hybrid plant which my father and I had once gathered so my mother could make burn poultices – and chewed the dark leaves into a pulp.

"What are you doing?" Peeta asked curiously, watching.

I spit out the green mass and plastered it to one of his hands, then did the same to the other. He instantly sighed with relief.

"Better?" I asked.

He nodded.

I stuck out my green-stained tongue at him and he laughed. Then, without taking his eyes off me, he simply said, "I love you, Katniss Everdeen."

We laid on our backs, side-by-side behind the honeysuckle bushes, blowing dandelion fluff into the air and watching the first golden leaves of autumn spiral down from the trees. A while later, Peeta brushed the _elder vera_ from his hands and entwined his fingers with mine.

"You will always be my family, and I will always be yours," he said in that solemn, wise way of his. For a moment he was no longer a child of ten, but a grown man making a vow.

I thought for a minute, then added, "And we'll always protect each other. Because that's what we do."

Peeta squeezed my hand.

"Yes. Always."

That's why I knew I needed to hurt him before I ran. That's why I threw the dandelions in his face. He would never really be safe so long as we kept pretending _not_ to love each other. That hadn't worked.

It had to be _real._

I had to break Peeta's heart, or else he would never stop trying to protect me.

* * *

The train whistles mournfully as it approaches.

In a minute this will all be over.

I stumble out from where I've been kneeling in the long, dry grass and force my feet to move towards the tracks, but I don't actually look directly at the oncoming train. I'm afraid that if I do, I'll run.

The whistle blows again, louder this time.

I shut my eyes.

I can hear the wheels.

They're moving so fast.

This is it. Here it comes.

I hesitate for a panicky second that feels like an eternity – _NO!_ my insides protest – and then throw myself onto the tracks.

"Woah!" someone yells, their voice barely audible as the roar of the train fills my ears. Then my shirt gets caught on something and I'm slammed into the ground.

At first I panic, thinking I'm being dragged by the train. I brace myself for the horror of a long, gruesome death, but it never comes. The train just rushes by, inches away from my body, deafeningly loud, blowing dirt into my eyes and mouth. My skirt flies up in an undignified way around my waist.

Then it's passing, leaving me behind, untouched.

"What in the _bloody hell _were you thinking!" comes a surly voice behind me.

I turn to see a middle-aged man with unkempt greying hair, a stubbly jaw and a paunchy stomach. He's been knocked flat on his ass but still clings to a bottle of white liquor, poorly concealed inside a paper bag.

I'm stupefied. Where did he come from? Why did he stop me?

"Idiot girl!" he bellows, more shaken than actually spiteful. "Are you trying to get yourself killed?" He hauls himself stiffly to his feet, panting. "Have you ever actually _seen_ someone get hit by a train? One hell of a messy way to go."

I can't tell if this man is sober or drunk or somewhere in between. Just as I'm pondering it, he breaks the seal on his bottle of liquor, tosses the cap away and takes a long pull from it.

"Goddamn it!" he spits again when his eyes roll downward and he notices his dirt-streaked shirt. "Made me ruin my goddamn shirt, too. Next time, do your own rescuing."

Suddenly, I snap.

"I wasn't_ asking_ for your help!" I shriek, enraged. Angry that he ruined my opportunity to escape. Angry that he's daring to lecture me at time like this.

The man just chuckles.

"Every goddamn thing _about _you is a cry for help, _sweetheart_," he hurls back, his lips curling upwards into a smug smile just as he tilts the bottle back, taking another swig.

"Asshole!" I spit at his feet and march off in the opposite direction, fuming. It's only when I run out of steam and slump down behind a scrubby little bush that my emotions catch up with me.

I fall to pieces.

I don't really want to die, but it's not like I have any other option now. I can't walk back into the middle of the district. I have nowhere to go, and Hollis may have even sent peacekeepers out looking for me already.

I numbly resolve to wait for the next train and try again.

* * *

The sky is purple with dusk and I'm just starting to shiver when I hear it.

Not a train's whistle.

Rustling.

A split second later, I'm staring at a glossy pair of mens' shoes. I look up to see the same, grey-haired stranger as before. _The man who saved your life_ my brain registers, but I quickly shove that thought aside. He has changed into clean clothes since our last encounter, but still wears the same smug, surly expression as before.

"You got a home to go to?" he asks gruffly. When I don't answer, he mutters, "Guess not."

He removes a silver flask from inside his jacket and takes a drink, then holds it out to me.

Who the hell _is_ this guy?

"Are you gonna take it or not?"

In a moment of impulsivity, I grab the flask from his hand and take a swig. The liquor tastes worse than medicine and burns my throat and nostrils on the way down. But then it brings a pleasant sort of warmth to my stomach, which quickly spreads out through my aching limbs. I brave the unpleasantness and take another swig.

The man snorts. "Easy there."

I hand the flask back to him and he screws the cap on deftly between finger and thumb.

Perhaps he's not as drunk as he seems.

"If you're waiting for another train, you're going to be for here a long time," he finally says. "There's nothing coming through this way until Monday." Then he simply starts to walk away.

My mind races. What will I do now? I can't keep hiding for four more days. The peacekeepers will find me by then.

The man doesn't even look back over his shoulder at me. He just calls out, "So are you coming or not?" and keeps walking.

For a minute, I just watch his form get smaller and smaller.

Then I haul myself to my feet and follow him.

* * *

His name is Haymitch Abernathy, and he is the drunkest and richest man in all of District 12.

He lives on a massive estate on the far edge of town. No neighbors, no family. Groundskeepers must come and keep the gardens manicured because the face of the mansion, itself, is beautifully maintained. But inside it's a different story.

As soon as I walk in the front door, I'm hit by the overwhelming stench of cooked cabbage, rat droppings and stale liquor. Old newspapers and empty bottles litter the floor of each room. Plates encrusted with dried food rest on every available surface. There's a large hole in part of the drywall, as if someone actually fell into it, and greasy handprints stain the swinging door that leads to the kitchen, where the sink is filled with broken glass.

For a minute, I just stand there and take it all in. In a weird way, I can relate to this house. I'm a wreck inside, too.

Maybe that's why Haymitch keeps it this way.

"Do you clean?" he finally asks, turning to me.

Is he offering me a job?

He just stares at me until I finally nod once, curtly.

"Fine," Haymitch says, rubbing his belly. "You can start tomorrow. I'll show you where to sleep tonight."

I follow him up the stairs and through a maze of dark, empty hallways until we stop at closed bedroom door. He takes another pull from his flask and then throws the door open, motioning inside with his hand without actually looking at the room he's chosen for me.

"You can stay here," he announces. Then, without another word, he staggers away.

I'm left standing in front of the only part of the whole house that doesn't seem to have been touched by filth and destruction. In fact, judging by the faded bedspread and the thick layer of dust, no one has been near it in years.

It's a young girl's bedroom.

* * *

"You alive?"

The toe of someone's shoe gently nudges me in the side. I open my eyes to find myself curled up on a cold bathroom floor with Haymitch standing over me.

After falling asleep last night I'd had one suffocating nightmare after another. Some were old favorites. Others were new horrors featuring roaring trains and Peeta's bruised, broken face. I remember waking up gasping and staggering down the hallway, nauseated, looking for a bathroom. But I don't remember passing out on the floor.

I blink a few times and stare up at the fancy light fixture above.

"Good," Haymitch grunts when he sees that I'm conscious. "You can start by cleaning the kitchen. I'll be back later." Then he wanders off and leaves me alone once again.

I just lie there for a while, listening to the silence, feeling eerily disconnected from the world. I feel like I'm on a different planet and District 12 is just some distant dream I once had.

Eventually, though, I do pull myself to my feet, splash some cold water on my face and run my fingers through the tangled remnants of my hair. Haymitch's house is so big that I get lost a couple of times in my search for the kitchen. I finally locate it by following the odors of burnt toast and rotten garbage. When I open the door, I see that he has tried to make breakfast and has left me his mess.

But he's also left me something else. Something that shocks me.

A space has been cleared at the cluttered kitchen table. There sits a plate of somewhat charred toast with a watery little pile of scrambled eggs on the side.

Haymitch made me breakfast.


	12. Chapter 11: Recovery Time

I've never really had an actual friend.

Peeta was so much more than that, and no one else even came close. Until Haymitch.

That first day, I only eat a few bites of the eggs and toast he made me. My body feels like it's made of lead, and the only progress I make in cleaning the kitchen is moving a few dirty dishes around. Even that takes a monumental effort.

When Haymitch walks in at the end of the day, I brace myself, thinking he'll be angry for sure that I haven't done any of the cleaning that he'd asked of me. But Haymitch doesn't even seem to notice. He just grunts, grabs a can of lamb stew from the cupboard and eats it cold. Then he slumps down in a chair and drinks white liquor until he passes out.

This goes on for days, then weeks. I'm able to escape, somewhat, in the monotony of housework by day. But the nights leave me defenseless. Every time I close my eyes, Peeta's anguished face is there, waiting for me. Memories I didn't even know I had start to crop up and torment me – like that one time, years ago, when Peeta snuck under the district fence to pick me an apple when I was hungry. Or the way his long, blonde lashes were only really visible in the sunlight.

What little sleep I do get is plagued by nightmares. Sometimes I wake up scratching around the edge of the mattress, looking for a withered dandelion to hold onto before realizing that I'm no longer in the cellar and I ran away without taking any of Peeta's flowers with me. I didn't even think of it at the time, but now I'm filled with regret. Why didn't I just slip one of those blooms into my pocket before I left?

But I know it would've been too much. It would've stopped me. The desire to run back to Peeta and hold him and tell him I didn't mean a single word of what I said is already so powerful that I want to scream, but my body remains frozen, paralyzed by sadness. There is no going back now. I made sure of it.

Life feels empty. Bleak. Pointless. Over the weeks, my pain doesn't really lessen so much as turn into a black hole that sucks the rest of me into it, until I feel nothing at all. But every day, Haymitch wakes me up and curtly assigns me some new task, so I'm forced to get out of bed. And every day I discover a plate of food awaiting me at the kitchen table.

He doesn't seem to care whether or not I finish my meals or my work. He just comes home every evening, falls into his chair and drinks more white liquor.

And then we do the whole thing again the next day.

In a strange way, the predictability of the routine becomes a comfort. I have no desire to live, but no energy to do anything about it. So I tell myself that I'll just stay here in Haymitch's house in the meantime, until I figure out what to do next.

The meantime stretches into months. Haymitch doesn't ask about my past and I don't ask about his. But one day, in the course of cleaning his neglected study, I find a pile of framed pictures. Each has been deliberately placed face down. When I turn the first one over, I see a pretty, red-haired woman posing in a cream-colored dress. Next to her is a dark-haired young man, probably not much older than I am now. They're smiling.

It takes me a moment to realize that the man in the photo is Haymitch. I've never seen him smile.

I don't see the happy couple again in any of the other photos I turn over, but that's because the rest are of a round-cheeked baby girl with the same strawberry curls as her mother. In the final picture, she looks to be about three. Her hair has darkened and she's wearing a frilly blue dress.

She's blowing dandelion fluff into the wind.

I suddenly feel like I'm trespassing and quickly turn the photos upside down again.

That evening, Haymitch comes home with fresh eggs, milk and bread. He's huffing and puffing, drenched in sweat, and might be even drunker than usual. Some of the eggs end up getting knocked to the floor as he tries to make himself dinner.

"Oh," he says forlornly, trying to focus his gaze on the mess at his feet.

Wordlessly, I take the pan from him and finish making the meal.

He stumbles towards the table and slumps down in his chair as usual, but this time he doesn't open a fresh bottle of liquor.

"They're for you, anyways," he slurs. "The eggs. It's all I know how to make. I'm not hungry. I'm never hungry."

It's probably true, what he's saying. All that alcohol can't leave him with much of a taste for anything else. Still, I put a plate down in front of him and he eats a few bites.

For whatever reason, Haymitch is at least trying.

* * *

One morning, Haymitch comes barging into my room and throws open the curtains.

I sit straight up in bed, blinded by the bright sunlight.

"Don't!" I bark at him. I've been keeping the curtains closed and avoiding all windows, unsure if I can even bear to look outside. What if I see a familiar landmark? What if the Mellark bakery is closer than I thought? I'm only just starting to get through the days smoothly, and I don't think I could handle being confronted with these reminders of my past just yet.

"Well, well. So you do have a voice," Haymitch chuckles.

I'm a bit taken aback to realize that it's the first time I've spoken to him since that day at the train tracks.

Haymitch's hair is combed and his clothes are freshly laundered. He hasn't been drinking nearly as much lately. "Get up," he says. "I need you to go into town to get some groceries today."

It takes a second for his words to sink in, and then my heart stops. He wants me to go _outside_?

"I can't," I say coldly, just as he's about to leave the room. He turns around and shoots me an irritated look.

"Oh, really? And why not? You have some big plans around the house that I don't know about?"

"I just can't," I repeat through gritted teeth.

We stare each other down.

"Have you looked outside lately?" Haymitch finally asks. I stubbornly refuse to turn my head towards the window until he does it first. Only then do I see the bare limbs of trees, standing out like skeletons against the cloudy grey sky. A few rust-colored leaves blow by the window as the wind carries them to the ground.

"It's November," he states.

I quickly count in my head. _Eight months._ I've been holed up in Haymitch's house for eight months. I missed my own birthday. I missed the whole summer. I haven't felt the sunshine or the rain in eight whole months.

How can that be? It seems like I only arrived yesterday.

I reach up to touch the jagged bob that Hollis left me with and I'm surprised to find that my hair has grown smoothly, if a little unevenly, down past my shoulders.

"It's cold, so you'll have to bundle up. I left a coat and scarf on the table with the grocery list. And while you're out, buy yourself some new clothes." Haymitch motions towards my one worn-out dress, which lies in a crumpled heap on the floor.

"I don't have any money," I tell him hoarsely.

"Well use what I give you, then," he answers in his matter-of-fact, _don't be stupid_ tone. "I'll leave that on the table, too."

"But I can't pay you back," I call out as he starts to walk away.

He snorts. "Who said you had to? We don't owe each other, you know."

Then he's gone, leaving me sitting there, dumbfounded.

For the first time, I realize Haymitch hasn't once held it over my head that I've been living in his house or eating his food. He's not counting up how much cleaning I've done or what it's costing him for me to be here. He's never thrown it in my face that he took me in, not even in his drunkest, surliest moments.

_Why would he want to buy me new things?_ My brain tries to find some sinister motive in it, but in the end there's only one explanation:

_Because Haymitch is my friend._

I guess not everyone in the world is like Hollis Mellark.

* * *

I feel naked.

Even wearing this huge, shapeless coat with the fur-lined hood up over my head. Even with the scarf pulled up to cover my mouth and nose. I still feel naked.

I take stiff, small steps towards the center of District 12. _It's okay_, I tell myself, _calm down. No one is going to recognize you. There are hundreds of girls from the Seam who have the same grey eyes. Peeta's in school. Hollis and Darrow are at work. As long as you keep your coat on and your head down and don't go anywhere near the bakery, you'll be fine._

Still, the butcher's shop is located on the same street as the bakery, and Haymitch's grocery list demands beef.

My stomach churns as I picture running into Hollis. Or worse yet, the butcher telling the Mellarks that he's seen me and knows who I've been buying meat for. I imagine Hollis showing up on Haymitch's doorstep looking for me, fuming at being made a fool of.

I take a sharp right and head for the Hob instead.

Haymitch may want beef, but he's getting wild dog.

* * *

Every few weeks throughout the rest of the winter, Haymitch sends me out to get groceries. And every time I go to the Hob rather than risk going into town. Hollis would never be seen in such a place, so there's no fear of running into her there. And if Haymitch ever notices that he's not eating exactly what he asked for, he never says a word.

By the time spring rolls around and the ground has thawed, I'm confident enough that I don't even feel the need to hide behind a bulky overcoat anymore. I still stick to the side streets and walk quickly, but I wear my new clothes and tie my hair back with a ribbon – a luxury that Hollis had never allowed me, but which Haymitch seemed to think was a necessity.

"Girls like ribbons," was all he had said, awkwardly presenting me with a fistful of them as an early birthday present. I'd laughed, because of all people in the world, I hadn't expected Haymitch to tell me what girls like. But the truth is, I was touched. Hollis had always discouraged me from looking pretty.

I adjust the green ribbon holding back my dark hair as I duck into the dusty, stale air of the Hob. Sae has a groosling and wild onion soup on today. The aroma is so mouth-watering that I decide to slide up to her counter and order a bowl right away.

"Pretty," she comments, nodding towards the ribbon. Then she pauses and studies my face. "You didn't have that when you came 'round here before."

"It was a birthday present," I answer between bites.

Sae shakes her head, the papery skin around her eyes crinkling.

"No, child. I mean _before_. Weren't you that skinny little thing who come by years ago? No money, just shufflin' around like you was lost?"

I shake my head, grateful for having a mouth full of soup so I don't have to answer. But despite my denial, Sae's gaze continues to linger on my face. She doesn't seem convinced.

"No, not me. Must've been someone else," I tell her before pushing my half-eaten bowl of soup back across the counter. "Thanks for the soup."

I hurriedly finish making my purchases, flitting from vendor to vendor like a bird. The fact that I've been recognized – even in a relatively safe place like the Hob – has thrown me off. All I can think about is getting back to the safety of Haymitch's mansion.

I'm so distracted that I don't even see the barrel-chested man coming in the doorway just as I'm leaving. We collide with a smack, and my grocery sack spills all over the ground.

"Sorry about that," he says good-naturedly, offering me a hand and pulling me to my feet. "You alright?"

"Yeah, um, it's okay. I'm fine," I mumble, not even meeting his eyes in embarrassment. People have paused mid-trade to turn and look at us. All this extra attention is starting to make my cheeks burn.

The man starts helping me collect my purchases, and by the time everything is piled back into my bag I gain the courage to give him a quick smile and glance around. Thankfully, the people of the Hob are no longer watching and have all gone back to what they were doing before.

All but one.

One pair of blue eyes, which remain riveted on me.

My blood runs cold.

_It's_ _Peeta_.


	13. Chapter 12: Confrontation

**Chapter 12: Confrontation**

I bolt out of the Hob, not even paying attention to what streets I take or who's around me. I can barely breathe, let alone think straight.

Peeta was there. Peeta saw me. I need to get home.

Why the hell was Peeta at the Hob?

Is he following me?

_Do I want him to?_

I have to get home.

My feet somehow carry me back to Haymitch's estate, although I can't remember exactly how I got there. As soon as the big house comes into view, I break into a sprint. I wrench open the front door and slam it shut behind me, collapsing in the middle of the front hall carpet. That's where Haymitch eventually finds me, crying and trembling so badly that I can't stand.

He doesn't need to ask me what happened. He just picks me up and carries me upstairs to my bed, tucking me in like a small child. Then he pulls up a chair beside me and clears his throat.

"Did I ever tell you about my little girl?"

I shake my head feebly, tugging the blankets up to my chin. Why Haymitch is confiding in me at this particular moment, I have no idea. I've never even told him about the day I found his daughter's pictures.

A haunted expression overtakes his lined face. He rubs his jaw slowly before finally opening his mouth.

"Leda," he exhales.

I sniffle.

"That was her name?"

Haymitch nods.

"I was going to show her the train," he continues slowly, choosing his words carefully. "We were walking together. She was beside me. And then... And then she wasn't."

I just stare at him through my wet eyelashes.

"She was always such a good girl," Haymitch says in disbelief. "I wasn't expecting her to run onto the tracks. She was just playing. It happened so fast."

So that's why he keeps returning to the train tracks. He's still trying to wrap his head around the tragedy of losing his little girl. With a chill, I recall his words on the day he found me there: _Have you ever actually seen someone get hit by a train?_

My stomach lurches.

Haymitch looks like he's a million miles away. "She was right beside me. Then she wasn't," is all he is able to repeat.

"Where's her mother?" I eventually croak, because I don't know what else to say.

He gives a little shrug and shakes his head.

"She left after it happened. Couldn't forgive me, I suppose. Devil knows where she is nowadays. But she would've been about your age now – my little one, I mean."

With that, Haymitch stands up to leave. At first I think he's finished speaking. Then he turns back to me at the last second.

"Most people wouldn't put up with a drunk old man," he says. "Most people would leave."

"I've lived with a lot worse," I reassure him.

* * *

The next few days are a blur. I only tell Haymitch a few disjointed pieces of my own history, but he puts them together and somehow figures most of it out, anyway. He eventually reminds me that I'm eighteen – a legal adult - and that I no longer need to live in fear.

"No one can touch you anymore," he says gruffly. "This is your home for as long as you want it to be. You can come and go as you please. But no one can make you go back to where you came from. No one can lay a hand on you."

Still, I continue to hide inside the house, dreading the moment when Peeta will show up at the door looking for me.

But weeks pass, and he never does.

I tell myself that maybe he didn't see where I went. Or perhaps I ran away before he could figure out why I looked so familiar. I did have an unexpected growth spurt as soon as I started eating three meals a day, after all. My face and body are fuller now than they ever were before.

But I know how it struck me right to my core when I saw his face. I recognized Peeta instantly, on some level that no amount of physical change could ever overwrite. Surely he felt it too. Still, I cling to the possibility that he couldn't have identified me as I tentatively start patronizing the Hob once more.

The summer months come and go without incident. I never even see anyone who looks remotely like Peeta. I eventually start to think that maybe I just imagined the whole thing, hallucinated in a moment of panic. _Peeta-on-the-brain. _It could be a medical condition.

I've legitimately started to believe this theory until the day I hear him say my name, and I know there's no way I'm imagining it.

"Katniss."

Low, quiet. Right beside me.

I slowly look up from the crate of pumpkins I've been digging through and turn to face the source of the voice I know so well.

Peeta Mellark. Standing just inches away from me.

_My Peeta._

I've thought about this moment a thousand times, but the flood of emotion that hits me when I actually look into his face leaves me speechless.

Luckily, he's more prepared than I am.

"Katniss, I think we need to talk."

* * *

I hope my hands aren't shaking too obviously as I place Peeta's mug on the table. I take the seat across from him, but neither of us makes any move to sip our tea. We just sit there in awkward silence for what feels like forever.

I can't believe that Peeta Mellark and I are having tea on Haymitch's porch.

It's surreal.

He finally clears his throat.

"So this is where you've been living?" I see his eyes survey the expansive gardens.

"Yes."

He doesn't respond. He just stares out over the lawn, his brow furrowed.

"This feels so… formal," I finally say, trying to cut the tension. I smile and attempt to catch Peeta's eye, but he doesn't notice.

"I'm still living at home," he says, without emotion. "In case you were wondering."

"Um, and… working at the bakery?"

"Yes. For a little while longer, at least."

"Oh," I say.

Another silence.

"How's… your dad?" I finally ask.

"Dad is fine. His arthritis is getting worse, though."

"Oh. And… graduation was... good?" I cringe inwardly at how lame I sound.

"It was okay," Peeta shrugs. "Nothing special. You weren't there," he adds after a moment of thought.

_No, I wasn't. I was hiding out here, in Haymitch's big house, trying to forget about you._

I'm wracking my brain, searching for something, _anything_ to say when Peeta exhales loudly and finally looks me directly in the eye.

"I'm getting married in the spring," he announces.

_What?_

I can't feel my body. For a second I think I'm going to faint.

"Oh," is all I manage to say as the shock of the news washes over me.

I look down at my mug of tea. I guess somewhere in the back of my mind I'd still been holding onto the small hope that Peeta and I would somehow end up together. There's no other explanation for why his words have managed to knock the wind out of me.

"Congratulations," I offer numbly. I hear myself starting to ramble like an idiot in an attempt to conceal my pain. "To Aspen, right? She was always a nice girl. That's a great match. Good for you. Congratulations. Again, I mean."

"No," Peeta says evenly. "Not to Aspen."

"No?"

He shakes his head. "You don't know who she is. She's from the Seam."

I pause to consider this. Hollis would never arrange such a disadvantageous match, let alone approve of it. At first, I'm a little thrilled that Peeta rebelled against the woman who caused us both so much hardship.

Then I realize the implications.

He must truly be _in love._

"Oh," is all that comes out of my mouth, yet again.

"Yeah," Peeta says quietly, turning his attention back to Haymitch's gardens. "You'd like her, Katniss. She's a nice girl."

There's nothing inflammatory about what Peeta just said – he's just stating the truth about his fiancée, and why should I expect any different? – but I still feel myself bristle with annoyance.

"Maybe I could meet her sometime," I say politely, even as my stomach churns, rejecting the idea.

"Sure," Peeta answers, pissing me off just a little more.

Another agonizing silence.

"So…" I struggle, looking for a change of subject before I lose control of my emotions. "Where will you be working, if you're not going to be at the bakery?"

"I'll be starting in the mines next month."

I choke on my tea.

"You can't work in the mines!" I blurt out. "You could die down there!"

Peeta suddenly slams down his mug and shoots me an angry glare.

"What do you care?" he snaps, his voice thick with hatred. "You left, Katniss! I looked everywhere for you! I thought you were dead, or suffering out there in the woods somewhere, but you were just living in your fancy new house this whole time! Why the fuck do you suddenly care about my life now?"

"I always cared!" I shoot back, my voice rising. I can feel the tears coming, too, but the anger keeps them at bay for the time being. "You don't know anything! You don't know what I was feeling! You don't know how hard it was for me!"

"You _left,_" Peeta spits again. "You just left me there. It sure didn't seem like it was too hard for you!"

"I left in order to help you!" I insist. Surely, he sees how what I did was necessary, how I had to remove myself if either of us were to have a shot at survival.

"_Bullshit!_" Peeta shouts before I can get another word out. He slams his hand against the table. Far from understanding my motive, he seems even angrier, and it catches me completely off guard. "We could've gotten through anything together! We got through it together for _eight fucking years_! You were the reason why I hoped for better things, Katniss! You made the fight worthwhile! And then you just left, and took all that hope with you!"

"I didn't '_just_ _leave'_!" I explode, unable to hold back my tears any longer. "I never meant to run away and have some kind of g-great life without you! I d-didn't want _any_ life without you! So don't you dare say that I just left! I went to the train tracks! I went to- to _get rid of myself,_ and –"

"Stop," Peeta says weakly, cutting me off. His mouth is still set in a hard line, but his eyes are bloodshot – he's on the verge of tears, himself. My words have caused him to remember how he lost Ry. "Please. Stop."

"Okay," I choke out. "But please, believe me. I had to go away to make Hollis stop h-hurting you."

"No, Katniss," Peeta counters. "Don't you get it? Mom's always been this way. She was like this before you came along, and she's been the same since you left. She's never going to change, Katniss. She's sick. It has nothing to do with you. And I've been telling you that for years, but you're too goddamn self absorbed to hear it."

My jaw actually drops a little. I can't believe Peeta just said something so hurtful. It only causes my fury to return, tenfold.

"So what did you want me to do? Hmm?" I demand. "Did you want me to stay in the cellar and keep taking beatings, just so you'd have company? Did you want me to stick around to watch you suffer? And you claim you loved me! Why would someone who loves me want me to stay in that nightmare of a house? Who's selfish now, Peeta?"

Peeta jumps to his feet. I've hit a sore spot – I've betrayed the one thing that I always reassured him that I believed in, which was his love for me - and I instantly regret it.

"_I did love you!_" Peeta snarls, pointing his finger at my face. He's so upset that he's shaking. I've never seen him this worked up before. "I loved you and you know it! _You_ were the one who hardly ever said it in return! _You_ were the one who took it all back and broke my heart before running away!"

It's true. All of it.

"My world fell apart the day you left," he continues. "And then just when everything was finally starting to get back to normal, you showed up at the Hob and dropped your stupid grocery bag! Up until that moment, I thought you were gone. I thought I was getting over you. I was getting serious with a beautiful, kind woman! And then you just... reappeared!"

"What difference does it make?" I cry out, enraged and humiliated at the same time. "You say you were getting serious about this girl - well, you're engaged now! What difference does it make if I show up? Why does it even matter to you?"

"Because you already destroyed me once before," Peeta says bitterly, "and I can't go through that again." He takes a deep breath and lowers his voice, leaning across the table towards me.

"Do you have any idea what kind of hell you left me in? How I blamed myself for your disappearance? Sometimes I hated you more than I've ever hated anyone. Then a minute later, I'd miss you so much that it would make me sick. Well, a person can't live that way, Katniss. I had to make a choice. I had to get my shit together. So I decided to propose to my girlfriend, and I decided to be happy. And I thought that maybe afterwards I would finally be able to face you at the Hob again without being angry. But I see now that that's impossible! We can _never_ be friends!"

Peeta's words slice right through my heart. I've been degraded by Hollis, whipped, beaten, starved… but nothing hurts as much as knowing that Peeta finally sees me as I see myself in my darkest moments.

I am a monster, and now he finally knows it.

"I… I had to make you hate me," I squeak before breaking into fresh tears and burying my face in my hands. He will never understand it or forgive me, but it's my only explanation.

When my sobbing finally subsides, I look up expecting to find myself alone. But Peeta's still standing there, glaring at me through his own tears.

"Well, it's not possible for me to hate you, Katniss," he chokes. "And it's not possible for us to just be friends, either. Because I'm still in love with you."


End file.
